Standing by the Reservoir: Mr Brown and Mr Blue
by Stanley Marlowe
Summary: Who were these two under explained characters? How did they know Joe Cabot? What did they have to lose and gain? How did they really die? This is an account from their perspectives, and answers questions left by that wonderful film "Reservoir Dogs".
1. Chapter 1

_**Standing by the Reservoir**_

_I do not own any of Quentin Tarantino's work, nor any of anyone else_

**Chapter 1**

Klaus Vermeer woke up with a stiff leg. It was the left leg, the one that had taken two bullets during the war, and it often bothered him in the morning. With a bit of walking around, he'd feel much better. Normally he felt so good he barely had a limp.

Vermeer stretched in the confines of his bed. He looked around the room: he was in his apartment building, and his bedroom, like the rest of the flat, was quite bare. Vermeer didn't want to have to pack much. He knew how important it was to be able to pack all your belongings into the back of your car and leave.

Vermeer sighed as he got up from his bed and headed for the bathroom to wash: he was getting way too old for this. It was only a matter of time before some fucking punk kid was gonna put a bullet through his brain, and he knew he ought to retire. He had just enough dough to live easy on, but he'd have liked to feel totally secure by earning a bit more.

There was no hot water in the bathroom that morning. Vermeer cursed to himself as he thought of giving the landlord a piece of his mind. Then he sighed, knowing that had he been ten years younger he would most certainly have gone down there and slapped the cheap bastard around just to chastise him. There was just no way to depend on provided comfort anymore.

Vermeer growled to himself as he combed his hair in the small mirror. He ought to go down south some time this year, for a permanent vacation. Cuba sounded great; but he wanted to go somewhere that he could stay content, be surrounded by people who talked English, and no fucking flatfoots to arrest you for breathing.

The phone suddenly rang in the other room. Vermeer froze, like a rabbit that's heard a sound nearby. Who knew where he was staying? He went over in his head who it could possibly be on the other line before cautiously heading over to the ringing phone.

He walked slowly, as if he expected something to come out of the phone. He wondered if the caller might give up soon, but no, the phone kept ringing.

"Jesus Christ," Vermeer breathed as he reached for the handle. He had to pick it up now: slowly he answered, "Who's this?"

"Finally, Vermeer, about fucking time you pick up."

Vermeer tried not to sigh with relief, "Hello, Joe."

Joe Cabot's rasping voice came in over the phone, "Vermeer, how you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected, since I've gotta keep my head down and all,' Vermeer replied. Joe was an old friend, a guy that Vermeer could always count on to help you out. Cabot and Vermeer had been in the infantry together, and had kept contact after the war. They had helped each other out when needed and when Cabot rose up the criminal ranks to be a boss, Vermeer put his loyalty behind Cabot when needed. In return, Cabot looked after him. It was a good friendship.

Vermeer smiled, "How's little Eddie doing?"

Cabot grunted, "Eddie? He ain't so little anymore, Klaus. You've been out of touch for a while now."

Vermeer dropped his voice to a lower tone, "Well, after that last escapade I wanted to get my head down nice and low so that nobody chased me."

"Hey, I knew that, I'm just saying you could have called up to let us know how you're doing,' Joe answered.

Vermeer paused. Joe didn't say this kind of stuff offhand. He wanted something. Vermeer put the phone tighter to his ear, "What's on your mind?"

Joe's voice sounded more quiet as he responded, "Come to my office tomorrow afternoon and you'll find out. But don't get followed, alright?"

Vermeer laughed, "Have I ever been? Just get somebody to pick me up in an anonymous car or something. I'll give you a rendezvous point and they can meet me there."

There was a hint of approval in Joe's voice as he spoke, "You're still sharp as when the fucking Japs came over the hill."

"" "" "" "" " """ "" "" " "" "" "" "" ""

Tommy Gallo slept in, as usual. It was a Saturday, after all.

So it was at nine o'clock in the morning, with the sun shining into the hotel room like crazy, that Gallo woke up.

Sighing, he gingerly got out of bed, not wanting to wake up Alice, a black girl around his own age, who was lying on her side with an arm around his waist.

He'd been dating Alice for two weeks. Last night had been their first night together at a hotel. Before, she had come over to his place, but they wanted to get a bigger bed for once. God, it had been fantastic. Alice was a positively beautiful girl, and Gallo had a feeling that she could be the one for him. He tried to shape up around her, cutting back a bit on his casual swearing, and trying not to take over the conversation, a little habit he was aware of and normally apathetic about.

Alice was waking up too, and Gallo leaned towards her and kissed her face, "Hey."

Alice sighed, "Hey."

Gallo went into the other room to get a drink. He would normally get a decent breakfast, but the goddamn hotel room didn't have a kitchen, and he didn't want to spend good money on crappy food.

Just as he filled up a glass of watered down Heineken, Gallo remembered suddenly what he had scheduled that day. He murmured in Alice's ear, "I gotta go. I've gotta go to my brother's wedding next week and I need a new suit." He got up and started for the bathroom.

Alice called after him, "So you're just gonna leave me here to clean up and pay for the room?" She sounded pissed off.

Gallo was glad to be able to correct her: he poked his head out around the door, "I paid for the room last night."

Alice was surprised, and mollified for the moment, Gallo saw with relief. He spoke again, "Listen, I'll meet you later today alright? I just need to get a new suit and then we can go to the movies or something."

Alice brightened, "At what time?"

Gallo thought about it, "Let's say one-thirty. What movie do you wanna see?"

Alice shrugged, "Doesn't matter."

Gallo nodded and turned back to look into the mirror as he applied gel to his hair. He had lied to Alice about the wedding: he didn't even have a goddamn brother, and it was going to be a bitch of a moment if she found out. Gallo wished he could have thought of something better than that. Now he'd have to make something up to go along with it. Maybe he could get Eddie to play his brother. That might work out; sure they looked nothing alike, but they had grown up together and would know stuff about each other that they could use to enforce the lie. Gallo felt bad about it, but it wouldn't be a whole lie: he did consider Eddie to be as good as his brother. Just like Joe was as good as his father.

He got dressed, and gave Alice one last kiss, "I'll see you later, okay?"

Alice gave another beautiful smile, "Sure."

With that, Gallo left the room.

He had to go see Joe Cabot about a special assignment.

Joe Cabot was a legend where he lived. He had been with Joe's son, Nice Guy Eddie, in High School, and the two of them had been good friends. At age nineteen, Gallo came to live with them after Gallo's parents finally divorced after a bitter marriage and because he didn't want to be with either of them, Gallo had gone to Eddie for a loan.

Joe had been nice about it, but had sternly reminded Gallo that he owed him, and would repay him somehow. Personally Gallo thought he sounded too Godfather-melodramatic but he agreed. He needed the money pretty badly.

After a while he found work in a video store. The pay wasn't the best, but Gallo thought the work was pretty decent. He had always been a fan of movies, and now had access to them on his breaks. It worked out great: he must have seen _Salvador _and _Once Upon a Time in the West _a thousand fucking times at least.

The other day, however, after all these years, Joe finally called Gallo up to talk business. He wanted to see him in his office the next day.

And so Gallo would come and pay off his debt at last.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Klaus Vermeer headed down the street, wondering which car would stop to bring him to Joe's. From the payphone- Vermeer knew that Joe would cut his fucking hand off rather than talk about such things on a traceable phone- Joe had told him, go down the street and wait outside the laundromat. Vermeer had done exactly that, but no car was waiting for him yet.

He wondered what Joe was up to this time. The last time that Joe needed him, he had been a negotiator's escort in a drug shipment. He had been one of the bodyguards of Nice Guy Eddie when Eddie had had to talk with some Irish thugs about paying what they owed Joe. Just when Vermeer had thought that things were at their worst, they had caved in to the threats and had delivered the money.

Vermeer thought of all the times he and Joe had worked together, and how Joe had always lived up to his commitments. He was definitely an honourable character, that Joe. Nice guy, too.

Vermeer sat on the stoop and started eating a sandwich he had bought for himself. It tasted like shit, as he had thought it would, but at least it was something.

That was when the car came up to him. Vermeer thought the driver was trying to hit him and was already standing up and jumping back when the car skid to a halt. Vermeer dropped the sandwich into the garbage can- he would get something to eat after seeing Joe.

Vermeer saw that it was Nice Guy Eddie of all people. Eddie leaned over on the passenger seat, grinning, "Mr. Vermeer! Good to see you again!"

Vermeer grunted. There was a time when he had bounced this little punk on his knee. Now he was a grown man. Vermeer felt minded to cuff Eddie over the head, "Learn to drive, you crazy asshole. You almost killed me: I'm getting too old to jump for my life."

Eddie's grin widened, "Come on, Mr. Vermeer, get in. Dad's been looking forward to seeing you again."

Vermeer got in, sitting next to Eddie as he drove the car. He wondered if Eddie was being tailed, or if he knew about how the cops would tail suspects. He didn't know if Eddie had changed since he last saw him, but Vermeer knew Eddie was not yet what his father was.

Joe was experienced in pulling heists, and he had been very rewarding to loyal followers. Vermeer had learned long ago that he was safest in Joe's organization, but even so, he had never been a true member of the group. He was always on the outside, always relied upon to be there when needed, but never there for long.

In truth, Vermeer didn't like the close association of being in an organization. It was too easy to be dragged down with the rest if just one motherfucker didn't keep his mouth shut. There was too much hastle in the need for keeping rats out, and Vermeer wasn't very interested in being caught up in a run-in with the damn flatfoots.

"So what have you been up to, Mr. Vermeer?" Eddie hated silence. Anyone who knew him for a long time, like Vermeer, knew that if nobody broke the silence, then Eddie would do it.

Vermeer took a cigar from the dashboard and put it in his mouth out of habit, "I've been laying low for the last few weeks. I don't want to be followed or anything."

"Anything happen or what?" Eddie asked, his eyes fixed on the road.

Vermeer shrugged, "It keeps me outta jail, what do you expect?"

Eddie grunted in amusement as he turned right, flipping the bird to a guy making a U-turn at precisely the wrong moment.

Vermeer settled back into the seat, trying to get comfortable, "I swear, I've gotta retire one of these days."

Eddie laughed, "Really? What do you want from Daddy, a desk job?"

"Yeah right,' Vermeer growled, 'I've been thinking of laying low further south."

For the first time since Vermeer got in, Eddie looked over at him, "Well then you're in the right car. My father's got a proposal for you that might just fit in with what you want."

Vermeer grunted, "That a fact?"

Eddie nodded, "Mm-hm."

By that point, they were at Joe's office. Eddie discreetly parked the car out of sight, and the two of them got out to head inside.

Joe was seated at his desk like always. He was a big, beefy man who had lost most- if not all- of his hair. His face was like a boulder on the west coast- worn, weathered, yet still displaying a deep inner strength. At first glance he would seem to be a very grim man, and he certainly was, but his age often hid the power that Joe had in him. Vermeer doubted that Joe would ever lose that power.

Joe got up to shake Vermeer's hand and clap him on the shoulder, "Klaus! How are ye?"

Vermeer grinned, "I feel like I'm seventy-five years old." In reality, he was sixty-six years old, two years older than Joe. That made Eddie, what, thirty something? Vermeer could never remember.

Joe sat down again once Vermeer was comfortably seated, "So what have you got planned out for yourself, Klaus?"

Vermeer shrugged, "I'm getting too goddamn old to go play cowboys anymore. I'm thinkin' that it's time I hung it up and settled down somewhere quiet. Maybe somewhere in Hawaii or a place where I can watch the blue ocean and feel the sun without carrying a fucking rifle under my seat."

Joe gave his own version of a smile, "That paints a pretty picture, don't it? Well I don't blame you for wanting that. Hell, I'd be glad to give it to ye."

Vermeer leaned back, "For one last favour?"

Joe lifted up the palms of his hands to the sky, in an offering of negotiation, "I don't want you to think you have to take it, Klaus. You and I, we've come a long way together. We've watched the fucking chinks run for us, ready to tear us to pieces, and we showed 'em what we thought of 'em. You've been a big help with the business, like a brother even. I know I can always trust you: and I need people I can trust."

Vermeer raised an eyebrow, "A new heist?"

Joe nodded, "Yeah."

Vermeer frowned, "With a bunch of guys I've never seen before?"

The right corner of Joe's mouth twitched in acknowledgement.

Vermeer chuckled, "That's gonna be pretty hard to do, Joe. I doubt you could whip up any new guys anymore. I'll know them."

Eddie chuckled, "Trust us, Mr. Vermeer, you're not our main guy. We've hired you as sparingly as anybody. It's a clever system, to be sure."

Vermeer turned around impatiently, "I know your fucking system, Eddie. I've known your old man since we were dodging bullets on the fucking Pacific islands."

Eddie shrugged, "I was just saying that you won't know anyone we bring in."

Vermeer turned back to Joe, "I don't want to have to come back here again. If we go to Hawaii, or wherever to cool off and hide, I'm staying there. Consider it my farewell attachment to you, Joe."

Joe spread his arms out, "Alright. One more for old times' sake."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3  
**

Vermeer wondered what the hell the scheme was going to be as he walked back to his flat from where Eddie had dropped him off (this time it was in front of a butcher shop) and he was looking forward to the dinner he was going to enjoy at his favourite restaurant.

Joe hadn't changed, he could see that. He was glad: the Joe Cabot he knew was shrewd and calculating while containing an animal-like ferocity that could lash against anyone that opposed him at the wrong time. Vermeer remembered moments during the war where it seemed completely hopeless, and Joe had never lost his cool head. Vermeer had learned to respect Joe then, and Joe in turn learned to trust Vermeer.

He headed into his flat, wondering if he ought to go rent a movie or something. He was in the mood for one of those Westerns that he always used to watch. All those guys were fantastic in those days- real hardass bastards that wouldn't think twice about pumping the other guy full of bullets. Vermeer remembered watching loads of Westerns as a child, but the way he saw it, the best ones were made later, with Clint Eastwood and Charley Bronson and Lee Van Cleef. Those three were Vermeer's personal favourites to watch on screen, because they didn't just pretend to be tough: they _were_ tough.

He headed over to the nearest video store. He wondered what he ought to get: maybe one of the newer films. He heard that _JFK _and _Silence of the Lambs_ were both amazing films, but he was not sure which one he would enjoy most. He figured he ought to ask the store clerk if he saw them.

He walked in, nodding to the young guy behind the store. The guy had a weird face: Vermeer could see that there was some guinea blood in there somewhere. His eyes were narrowed and blinked every minute or so. A jumpy guy, Vermeer thought, one who'd never be able to shoot a gun at someone.

Vermeer looked around, and then back at the guy behind the counter, "Have you seen _JFK_?

The man shrugged, "Who hasn't?"

Vermeer continued, "Is it about Kennedy himself or what?"

The man smiled, as though he had been waiting for that question all day: it was a chance to show off his intelligence with movies. He started off in a voice that spoke faster with excitement, "Well that depends entirely on your preference. I mean, what do you really want to see? Because if you want to see a movie that's got this stubborn son of a bitch taking on the whole fucking American government, then _JFK_ is the one for you. It's not about JFK himself, really, it's about the murder and how nobody in the country had the guts to try and solve it publicly. Then this guy named Garrison- Kevin Costner in the film- he's a fucking bulldozer. He goes right for the jaws, ready to figure this whole murder scheme and sue the asses off the people that paid for Kennedy's execution."

Vermeer was surprised by this guy's intensity, and his confidant opinion, and he found it hard to interrupt to tell him about how he had stood in the crowd during Kennedy's assassination in Dallas and how he had heard shots coming from the grassy knoll. He had been there and had seen it all, and he wondered when he'd be able to talk back to this guy.

He zoned back into what the guy was saying.

"So anyway, the assholes realize what's going on, and they get scared. Really scared. They send him a shitstorm of trouble you know? It gets worse and worse. I mean, how's he going to go to court? What's he gonna do? And then, by the time he's in court, it doesn't even fucking _matter_ whether he wins or not. It's the fact that he stood up to the motherfuckers in power and questioned what was told. That's the real essence of the story."

Vermeer scratched his right temple, "Well, haven't you given it away to me now? I mean, I was there when the bullets tore his head apart, I was watching Garrison on TV when he went into court, so what the fuck do I have to look forward to now that you've given away the storyline?"

The man stared incredulously at Vermeer, "What are you talking about? I've given you the essence. I haven't given you any revealing information about the story! I was just answering your _question_."

Vermeer shook his head, "Word of advice, kid. Never overload on info. You'd get more customers."

The man snorted sarcastically, "Well thanks for the advice." Vermeer had the feeling that he would have said more, but he wanted the customer to rent a film. Vermeer wondered if this guy always acted like this when asked a specific question about a movie he saw.

Vermeer headed over to where the copies of _JFK _were, and gave it to the man to ring out. He dropped the money onto the counter and took the movie into his hands.

He headed out of the door, not knowing that he had just met one of the guys that Joe was pulling in to be in the heist.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4  
**

Gallo had never imagined he'd actually want to get out of work.

He normally enjoyed it in the movie store, loving to recommend films that he'd seen and loved. But that day, he had an appointment to see Joe and Eddie. Gallo wondered when was the last time that he had seen them, and that was at church almost three weeks ago. Gallo's mother was a very religious Catholic, and Gallo went for her sake. He could tell she disapproved of his apathy to religion, and it hurt him to disappoint her, but that didn't mean he was going to go to church every sunday when Alice wanted to see him. She too wasn't very religious, as Gallo had found out personally.

Gallo worried about what he was going to say to Alice concerning his brother's wedding. Would it be cancelled? Would he die unexpectedly? Would his bride die? What the fuck hell was he going to tell her?

Maybe Joe could think something up. He was a smart guy, maybe he could help him out. He was thinking about it as he closed up. He remembered that fucking ass that showed up in the store earlier. What a crab. Here Gallo was, doing the guy a favour, and the idiot doesn't even acknowledge it. What had happened to him today to make him so pissed off? Gallo put it off of his mind as he called up Alice.

"Who's this?" A deep male's voice answered.

Gallo was surprised, "Gallo. Where's Alice?"

"Gallo? I don't know no Gallo."

"Alice does, so put her on."

The phone went quiet, and Gallo could hear the phone being exchanged.

"Hello?" It was Alice.

"Who was that?"

"My uncle. He just dropped by today. How are you Tommy?"

"Good." Gallo still felt uneasy about the uncle. He sounded like a guy used to bossing people around.

Alice suddenly dropped her voice, "So you coming over tonight?"

Gallo nodded automatically cursed in amusement at his own mistake, and answered, "Yeah of course! How could I possibly forget?"

Alice stifled a giggle, but then spoke again, "Listen, my uncle's going to stay over at my place for dinner. He and my aunt are visiting for dinner. You mind meeting them?"

Gallo felt a rotten feeling in his stomach: he had a feeling it wasn't going to work out very well. He wasn't exactly the most popular choice for a boyfriend, and having relatives of Alice's over might especially be tough to handle.

"Please? I know your brother's wedding's coming up, can you do it?" Alice pleaded. She wanted this, Gallo knew, and he owed her after dropping out so quickly.

He made his voice sound cheerful and carefree, "Yeah no problem. I just heard that my brother's postponed the wedding for some reason, so I can do it." It was pure improv from now on, Gallo thought.

"Really? What reason?" Alice was suddenly curious.

Gallo made sure he sounded thoroughly puzzled, "Well I don't know, but he didn't sound very happy at all. Maybe something happened between them, I don't know."

Alice sounded concerned when she replied, "Oh. That sucks. Well hopefully they can figure it out."

"I'm sure they will,' Gallo put in, eager with his success in persuading her, 'So I'm gonna finish closing this shit up, and then I'll be over there."

He quickly closed up the store (he always closed alone: he thought the idiot co-workers slowed him down) and headed home for a quick shower. He ought to get spruced up as much as possible for this dinner. He'd seen this movie before; anything he did would be reported back to Alice's parents. No matter what the fuck it was, they'd know. So he'd sure as hell make sure it was good news they sent back.

Just as got inside his apartment, the phone rang. He quickly picked it up, thinking it was Alice again, "Yeah what is it, sweetie?"

"Kiss my ass, you son of a bitch! I know about that broad you met the other night!" It was a very amused male's voice.

Gallo froze, mortified "Eddie?"

Eddie burst out laughing on the other end of the phone, prompting Gallo to viciously curse at him as much as he could until he stopped laughing.

Eddie spoke up, still breathless from laughter, "What a classic pickup line! She must be one hell of a girl!"

Gallo grinned in spite of himself, "Yeah. She's great."

"So what's her name?" Eddie asked.

"Alice Carter. I'm going over there tonight for dinner."

"Without me? You ass," Eddie said in a hurt voice, then began laughing again.

"Fuck you too,' Gallo responded good-naturedly.

Eddie resumed, "All this is really nice, but I gotta pick you up to meet Dad. He needs you for a favour."

Gallo felt annoyed; it was as if he didn't remember how Joe had provided him with all the money he needed at that time. Like he was ungrateful or something.

"I remember, Eddie. I respect your dad, and I'm going to that goddamn meeting alright? I'll be there!"

Eddie hastily apologized, "Hey I didn't mean to attack you or nothing. Just tell me when and where to drop by and I'll bring you over."

Gallo suddenly was hit with a great idea, "Okay sure. But listen, I need you to pretend to be my brother. See I made up some bull about having a wedding that you and your fiance postponed. I need you to pretend that that you and her split up, see? Just think of a good reason that she'll buy and then we can go."

"Don't worry, I caught that bitch with some other guy. Someone named Gallo,' Eddie said, laughing. He hung up after Gallo gave him the address and time.

Gallo looked at what clothes he ought to wear. It wasn't going to be formal, so he put aside his only tuxedo. He suddenly noticed his green shirt. It had a tropical feel to it: a red parrot on the shoulder, palm trees, the usual stuff. It looked pretty good with his new jeans. Getting ready, he went to the bus stop to get to Alice's apartment. He was looking forward to dinner: she was a better cook than he'd ever be.

He looked around at the other people on the bus, he noticed one guy sitting on his own at the end of the bus. The guy looked shifty, fiddling with his beard and moustache as he stared out of the window. The guy looked like a creep, sure enough, and Gallo paid him no more attention. He waited for his stop, even as the shifty-looking guy got off on his own stop.

Eventually, he got off the bus. He was hungrier than ever, and he eagerly knocked on Alice's apartment door.

Alice must have been waiting for him, because she opened the door barely a second after his second knock. She looked amazing, Gallo thought as he smiled in greeting. She was wearing a trace of lipstick and some eye shadow. Her hair had been especially cared for, hanging silkily on her shoulders in a ponytail. Seeing her, Gallo suddenly felt a deep surge of desire.

"Am I late?' Gallo asked, still imagining what would happen after her aunt and uncle left.

Alice smiled, "No, you're good. Nice shirt."

Gallo shrugged, "Yeah, I couldn't find anything really good."

Alice grabbed him by the hand and pulled him inside, "Come in, I want you to meet my aunt and uncle."

Gallo stumbled in awkwardly, trying to keep himself composed. Looking around, he saw a couple approaching him. Gallo tried to see what they were like by their appearances, but couldn't find much revealed.

The aunt was dressed in one of those outfits that you'd expect anyone's aunt to be wearing at a formal-family dinner, but the difference was that she carried it with as much grace as Alice carried her own outfit. She was shorter than all three of the other people in the hall, but she held herself up as if she alone belonged there. Looking at her face, Gallo couldn't help but feel like he was intruding on something. She didn't look at him with disdain, or friendliness, or anything he'd hoped or feared for. The closest expression she had on her face was curiosity. She was willing to give him a chance, but only that one chance. Gallo didn't feel so good all of a sudden.

If he didn't feel good before, then he felt downright nervous looking at the man he'd spoken to on the phone. He wished he hadn't been so hostile, because it seemed that the man had remembered it. He wasn't angry-looking, but he was definitely on his guard. The guy had a greying beard, short frizzy hair, and a pair of the most piercing eyes that Gallo had ever seen. He could tell this guy was a cop. No question about it, the way he carried himself and all. It just went without saying. Thinking of his connections to Joe and Eddie Cabot, Gallo suddenly felt very apprehensive.

But he tried to keep it behind him as he was introduced, by a very happy Alice to her mother's sister, Viola, and her uncle, Lieutenant Jim Holdaway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

After introductions, the group of four went into the dining room to eat. Gallo was conveniently placed opposite Alice on the square table. He wondered who's idea it was to arrange it that way. He felt like the only actor filming a movie that didn't know how the scene was going to play out.

But Gallo was hungry enough that food took his mind off of the standoff soon to come. He looked at Alice, "So what did you make, honey?"

Alice grinned; she was proud of her cooking ability, "Steaks. With mashed potatoes, gravy, and tossed salad."

Gallo's mouth watered. He offered to help out, but Alice said no.

Lt. Holdaway, meanwhile was putting a napkin on, while his wife spoke to Alice about helping her in the kitchen. Alice refused again, but her aunt got up anyway.

Gallo knew this was now the time to try and make an impression on Holdaway, but he was smarter than that. Holdaway was waiting to see what he'd say, and act strict to prove himself to be in charge. Gallo wasn't about to give away the advantage here. He'd seen this movie before.

Instead, Gallo excused himself to wash his hands. Taking his time, he went into the bathroom and waited for the water to warm up. Lathering thoroughly, Gallo made sure he looked okay. He was gonna get out of this with face, or he'd never fit in with Alice's family. This was gonna be easy compared to meeting Alice's parents or siblings. This could help or hinder him in the long run, so he had to be calm, like Gordon Gekko calm, or else it was gonna be his ass.

Coming back to the table, he saw the salad was in front of him. Politely asking for the dressing, he put it on his salad. Funny, he thought, he'd forgotten how Alice could make a frigging salad taste amazing. Of course, he wasn't going to kiss up to her in front of the relatives, so he merely smiled in thanks at Alice across the table.

Alice was always better at getting a conversation started than he was. Leaning towards her uncle, she asked, "So how's it going at work?"

Holdaway surprised Gallo by being equally gruff to his neice. Well, maybe not gruff: just not favouring her. Seemed to Gallo that he treated everyone the same way: behind a wall of protection. 'Must be the fact that he's a cop' Gallo thought to himself.

"Well, I don't want to be specific, but I've been assigned to go after this real bad crime boss in the area. We've got word that he's preparing a heist, and we want to stop it from taking place."

Alice's aunt, Viola, turned to Gallo, "So what do you do for a job?"

Gallo spoke as politely as he could without sounding fake, "Well, I own a video rental store. I've got a couple of guys that work for me part-time, and I work full time."

Holdaway raised his eyebrow, "Videos?"

"Movies, yeah,' Gallo replied. That was one of two things that Joe's money had gotten him. First he'd gotten the apartment, then he'd taken work at a video store for a few months before buying out the owner. Business was going well enough, and he hoped he could expand it after a year or two.

He said as much of his plans to Holdaway as not to sound criminal. In truth, it wasn't, as far as Gallo was concerned. Joe had put his own money to help Gallo. How Joe got that money was not any of Gallo's business.

Holdaway didn't seem so, because he was curious about how a man who'd never been to college found the money to buy the deeds to a video store. Gallo noted, with glee, that Alice frowned at her uncle for being rude. Holdaway didn't pay any attention to Alice's look.

Of course, Gallo had planned for these questions, "Well, see, my father was ready to pay for my first year in college, but then my mom divorced him. So then the money got split up between us, but in the end it didn't matter, because I dropped out of college. My uncle felt bad for me so he gave me a loan. In a few months, I'll have paid him back."

Holdaway nodded acceptance, "Well, I can respect a man paying his debts. But college didn't work out for you?" By then they were just beginning on the main course. Gallo took a moment to savour the first amazing bite of the meat, just stopping himself from going 'Mmmm' or something like that.

Gallo shook his head, "No, my brother wanted to go too, and he's always been the smarter one. After the divorce, my parents couldn't pay for the two of us. So I dropped out. Haven't really been on speaking terms with either of my parents, really." Gallo thought he saw a look of sympathy cross Viola's face, but he didn't really look.

'God,' Gallo thought to himself as he filled his mouth with mashed potato, 'how the fuck can I mix fact and fiction so amazingly? Jesus, I should write a Hollywood script or something.'

After that, dinner was more relaxed. Holdaway and Viola weren't as intrusive and focusing on Gallo. Gallo even started recommending movie he'd seen recently. Viola didn't look like one of those people that enjoyed movies, but Holdaway seemed to be listening to recommendations, and even offered his own advice on the topic of films. Not surprisingly, he hated "Serpico".

Gallo figured he'd gotten away so far. Holdaway spoke with more familiarity, allowing Gallo more breathing space. His wife spoke most often with Alice: it seemed odd at this relationship, but Gallo didn't make any comment.

Eventually, Lt. and Mrs. Holdoway got up to leave. Gallo got up to shake Holdoway's hand, and said his goodbyes to Viola, who returned them with a friendly air. Gallo could feel himself breathing easy for the first time since dinner began.

Alice said her goodbyes as the pair of them headed out the door, with Gallo also politely giving a wave.

As soon as they closed the doors behind them, the night was theirs.

"" "" "" " "" """ "" "" ""

The next morning, Eddie showed up at the time Gallo had given him. Gallo hoped that Eddie had remembered the part he was to play even as he introduced him to Alice.

Alice was delighted to meet Gallo's 'brother', "I heard about the wedding."

Eddie shrugged, looking a tad too serious for Gallo's liking, "Yeah well..."

Gallo interrupted quickly, "So, when is it anyway? Because Alice needs to get something really nice." He had asked Alice the night before, as they'd cleaned up the kitchen. She'd been ecstatic, and Gallo had felt a twinge of guilt knowing that this was going to change it all.

Eddie looked at Gallo, and the man saw to his astonishment that Eddie looked genuinely ready to cry, "The wedding's off, Tommy! It's off!"

Gallo was stunned, mostly at the compassion in Eddie's voice, "What happened?"

Eddie sniffed, "That bitch was two-timing me all this goddamn time!" He sniffed again, and apologized to Alice for his cursing. Alice stood there, taking it all in, offering her deepest sympathies and looking ready to cry herself.

Eddie gave a small smile and thanked Alice for the wishes, and after ten minutes or so, Gallo and Eddie left Alice's apartment.

Gallo was happier than he'd been in a while. Not only was everything going fabulous with his job and Alice, but now he could stop worrying about lying to her and they could get together and everything.

All that was stopping him was what Joe needed him to do. Whatever that was, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Gallo sat down in the car. Eddie sat down next to him, silently grinning to himself over the brilliant performance. He looked over to Gallo with amusement bubbling out of his very words, "I could have been nominated for a friggin' Oscar! My brother Sean always said that I should have become a big time actor like he did, but hell, Dad was pissed off enough that his older son was leaving the family business."

Gallo shrugged, "Let's get going, man. Joe never liked lateness." He was referring to when he would go play at Eddie's house when they were in school together. Eddie would sometimes get an earful from his father about how he hadn't come home from school on time.

Eddie chuckled, "You're right there, bud. Let's get going."

Turning the key, he revved off from Alice's house. Eddie popped in a CD with one hand while the other hand stayed on the wheel. Gallo jumped from the volume that he'd forgotten that Eddie always used, then recognized the song as "I Gotcha" by Joe Tex.

He looked incredulously to his left, "Are you fucking kidding me? We listened to this when it was new!"

Eddie grinned, "Hey! It's awesome, asshole! You should hear some tunes playing on K-BILLY's Super Sounds of the Seventies Weekend. They play stuff you haven't heard since your voice dropped."

Gallo snorted, "Yeah, of course I'd like to be reminded of that stage in my life, thanks a lot."

Eddie laughed, "Oh yeah, you and I nearly failed gym that one year too. Remember that teacher we had? What was his name?"

"His name was Mr. Tony Livingston,' Gallo muttered. He still remembered that sadistic asshole. His son Beaumont had also been in the school, and as far as he knew, the stupid idiot hadn't done anything good with his life since. Who would with a dad that considered it pathetic that a fifteen year old couldn't turn into goddamn John Rambo by the end of the year?

Gallo felt angry at the previous hurts in his life. He hadn't been much of a social guy in high school. Eddie had been his only friend, and that might have saved him because of Eddie's popularity. But no, he was looked down on as the weird tag-along that Eddie cheerfully tolerated. So in Eddie's presence, he was tolerated by the rest, but they'd never have bothered if not for Eddie's sake.

The deep gratitude he was supposed to have for Eddie had long been suppressed in Gallo's mind, along with most of his childhood memories. But all this talk of the 'good old days' from Eddie was bringing it all up.

'Was he doing this on purpose?' Gallo thought to himself angrily.

Eddie looked over, and the bitterness that Gallo was feeling must have revealed itself in his facial expression. He shook his head, "Relax Tommy, just sit back and relax. We're gonna go meet the Don himself now to discuss the favour you owe him." Laughing at another 70's reference, he heard the song end, then promptly switched it back to the beginning of the song.

Gallo groaned, "You haven't changed at all, you used to hear a song five fucking times in a row in high school and then listen to it a couple of days later just when everybody was in the car! Sean threatened to kill you on a regular routine!"

Eddie laughed, "Good songs never get old!"

Gallo cursed under his breath as Eddie drove the two of them to the Cabots' house.

When Gallo entered the room, Joe was sipping some black coffee from a brown mug. Gallo nodded his greetings, and Joe rasped out, "How ya doin' Tommy?"

Gallo shrugged and scratched his nose out of nervousness, "Not bad. I'm getting by with the store." He felt awkward- the store was the very reason that he sat here now.

Joe put the mug down the same time as Eddie came in, "Heard that you'd hooked up with some negro girl."

Gallo flinched at the word Joe used so casually, but didn't want to appear weak in front of Joe, so he said nothing about it. Instead, he shrugged, "Her name's Alice."

Joe nodded, "Hm. She any good-looking?"

Gallo felt worse: it made no difference that Joe thought he was making polite conversation, "Sure. She's a great cook too."

Eddie grinned, "A bit gullible though."

Joe waved a hand at Eddie, "Come on, now. We need to get down to business here."

Eddie clapped a hand on Gallo's shoulders, "Okay, Tommy, this is what we need you to do for us. See we're organizing something, but we're short of guys at this point. It won't work if we don't have enough people."

Gallo frowned, "So what's it about? What's going on?"

Eddie faltered, and grinned exasperatedly at his father, "Christ, how do you open up to this?"

Joe grunted, displeased by Eddie's uncertainty. He folded his hands on the surface of his desk, "It's a robbery. We're gonna hit that big jewelry store not five blocks from here. They just got a new shipment of diamonds, and we're gettin' ready to take it for ourselves."

Gallo almost froze in surprise. He had not believed that this was what he would be asked to do. To join up with a gang of criminals to potentially hurt people in an armed robbery!

Eddie noticed his friend's distress, "Hey don't worry, these guys don't know you, you don't know them. You won't have to carry a gun if you don't want to. We know you aren't a criminal, you'll be the getaway driver."

Gallo felt a bit of relief, but the panic returned like lightening. It didn't matter if he drove the car, he was still a criminal! And he could get arrested by the cops! Maybe he'd run into Holdaway... Gallo's heart almost stopped as he thought of the look on Alice's face when she found out about this. He didn't want to lose her.

Joe thumped the table, "Listen, Tommy, you have to do this for us, and afterward, we're squared off. You don't owe us anything, you go back to your store, and your broad, and you look back on this memory, and fucking laugh about it. It's no big deal, and hell, you get a free trip south out of it."

Gallo noted that he would indeed need to take a quick vacation to avoid the heat. What was going on? What would he do about Alice?

Eddie seemed to read his mind, "Bring the girl along. The more the merrier."

The idea of Alice, whose aunt was married to a police lieutenant, meeting the gang of crooks who might have shot innocent people in the street didn't appeal to Gallo, but he knew that he owed this one last thing, and he was a free man.

Even as he thought of it, a part of him awoke to the idea of being the getaway driver. He wouldn't be watching this from a safe little seat in a movie theatre. He'd be in the middle of the action! He'd never been much of an athlete as a youth, and he had always envied those tough-looking bastards who stood outside the school yard. He'd taken up smoking just to be in their proximity, a habit that he'd never lost, but he'd just been isolated even more after that. Wasn't it every guy's dream to carry a gun and live like those cowboys he'd seen as a little boy? Those same tough bastards that had robbed banks easily and had ridden off into the desert with wild laughter and smiles? Was this the chance for Gallo to finally achieve a taste of what that was like?

He focused back in on the two men in the room. Eddie had noticed his changing expression, and looked relieved. Joe hadn't noticed as fast as his son, and still peered at Gallo as though he needed to persuade the man again.

Gallo waved a hand, "Alright fine, I'll do it. Shit, I'll carry a fucking gun, and I'll get the guys outta there. Then we all go to Hawaii or something?"

Joe nodded, "Yup. For a couple of weeks. I don't know what the hell you're gonna tell that girl of yours, though."

Eddie looked at his father, "Well, so far I'm the brother whose soon-to-be wife cheated on, and now the wedding's cancelled, so maybe we work our way up from there?"

Joe merely stared incredulously at the elaborate lie constructed by the two guys in front of him.

Gallo's eyes lit up, "Hey! That's it! We'll tell her that my brother's taking a trip down to Hawaii, and he's invited his close friends, along with his brother and girlfriend. That'd work." He glanced at Joe, "You might have to pass off as my father, though."

Joe grunted, "I haven't heard bigger shit than when Sean starred in that tough-boys movie. Hopefully this works out better than that did."

Eddie laughed, then turned to Gallo, "So you're in?"

Gallo nodded, "Yeah."

Eddie smiled, "Good. Just one more thing: we're gonna give you a name so that nobody knows who you are. And then you won't be able to recognize anyone."

Clever, Gallo thought. Why did nobody ever think of that before in the movies? He spoke up, "So what's my name, then?"

Joe didn't answer; Eddie was the one who responded, "We're still getting through the list of people, so we're not sure who everyone's gonna be. But for now, you'll be Mr. Brown."

Joe chose that time to begin telling him about the plan, and even after he'd dismissed Gallo for the day with a formal handshake, after Eddie had driven him back home, Gallo wished he'd spoken his mind about how Mr. Brown sounded way to much like Mr. Shit.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7  
**

Vermeer pondered over his name; he was going to be Mr. Blue. Christ, what a name. Well, it could be worse, he thought. He could have been Mr. Pink or something like that.

He thought back to the scheme that Joe had cooked up. He hadn't been given a specific role yet; they were still getting the guys for the heist, so Joe didn't want to put labels on anyone yet. Vermeer wondered what he'd end up doing. He certainly wasn't going to be a getaway driver; if Joe wanted a driver, he could have picked any college dropout idiot for that. No, Joe wanted him to be personally involved. Oh well, Vermeer could already see the future retirement ahead of him. It was about time, too. Anyone who'd stormed the beaches of Saipan with the 27th Infantry Division deserved a break. He'd certainly waited for a long time for this moment. All his worries could be put away as he traveled off somewheres from Hawaii, where he couldn't be followed. He'd find something.

Thinking of Saipan made him suddenly remember the war: the times where he should have died from shrapnel or a sniper's bullet; the times where he hadn't hesitated in sharing his fucking underwear with Joe and the other guys in his company; the day he first heard the name Hiroshima.

Vermeer smiled to himself. For all the death and destruction, there had been some really great guys he'd met in that experience. He suddenly wished he knew where they'd all gone. He hadn't kept contact with any of them except Joe, and who knows what had happened to them.

Vermeer suddenly began thinking of his first wife. She had been beautiful, and smart, and ten years younger than him. She'd been part of the Japs' attack on Nanking and had barely escaped rape and murder. Not her sisters though; the fucking Japs had certainly made their last moments hell. Vermeer hated Japs.

Poor girl hadn't been so happy in the States, and even less happy with Vermeer's occupation in the crime syndicate. He'd always treated her nice, though, and she knew that without him, she'd never survive. Vermeer had sensed her disapproval and her misery, and though it had hurt him, he had tried to be kind to her. Of course, how could she ever be truly happy after Nanking?

Thinking of her made Vermeer feel like shit. He tried to move on to something else in his mind as he walked down the street. He wanted to get something to eat, it was around dinner time anyway. He looked from restaurant to restaurant, looking for a decent place.

He noticed one diner that looked appealing: big windows showed the inside of the place, so it was easy for Vermeer to check the place out for himself.

He noticed a young guy standing next to where an older black guy was seated. The two of them embraced and the young man sat down and began talking. Vermeer sniffed and moved on. It must have been a gay bar or something.

He decided to try the place from the other night. They'd made good steaks, and he hadn't had to pay too much.

Shouldering his coat, Vermeer trudged along down the street. A couple of college aged boys were leaning against the wall, but Vermeer felt no fear, just contempt. He was more of a man than all of those bastards combined, and even if age had worn him out, he still carried his gun, ready to use in a bad fix.

The youths looked like they wanted to fuck around and be jerks. Just another old guy to harass. Well, thought Vermeer with a grin, they'll learn a thing or two if they cross me.

One of them seemed to be stupider than the rest, "Hey grandpa what's in the bag?" he was referring to the old army bag that Vermeer had packed all his stuff into. He had decided it was time to move out of his apartment and stick to three-night trips at hotels. But this meant he had to carry his belongings around.

Vermeer turned to him in disgust, "What's in my bag? Some jerk-off, limp-wristed punk's balls that I ripped out with my own fucking hands."

The other goons whistled in anticipation, reminding Vermeer of the birds he'd seen as he'd run along many a defended shoreline against the enemy. Those birds had waited for the dead to be abandoned and then they gorged. Vermeer had made it his business then to shoot them for sport if he could.

The leader of the group paused in mock surprise, "Well look at that, fellahs! This old prune hasn't heard of the new toll booth!"

Vermeer knew he was supposed to ask, but he knew what the bastard was going to say, "A toll booth run by three mollycoddles demanding what? Milk money?"

The teens laughed as they began to step forward. Vermeer smiled.

Suddenly, one of the other teens made a move. He reached for Vermeer's bag, upon which his right hand was resting. The kid was fast, but Vermeer had seen him coming. He had nothing on a Jap.

The boy suddenly screamed in pain as Vermeer's knife slashed the upper part of his forearm. Vermeer had long known that this would turn violent and as he had approached the boys, he had made sure his old switchblade had been hidden beneath his sleeve.

Surprised by this sudden attack, the wounded youth backed away, clutching his arm. The other two tried to run off, but one of them got tripped up by Vermeer.

As the two boys deserted their friend, Vermeer placed his knife close to his captive's throat, "What's your name, kid?"

The boy swallowed, "Brett."

Vermeer chuckled, "That mouth of yours is gonna get you into a fuck hell of a lot of trouble. And when that trouble comes, it won't be as merciful as me." He pulled away from Brett's throat, spat on the ground beside him in derision, and nodded his head, "Looks like you boys dropped your suitcase."

Picking it up, he was astonished at it's class. Real good for a bunch of idiots like these. He wondered what was in it. Brett was staring in horror at Vermeer, and began pleading with him to give it back.

Vermeer felt even more disgusted at this loudmouth. He put the case on top of a nearby garbage can and walked away.

Once he'd turned a corner away from Brett and the case, Vermeer sighed deeply and bowed over to catch his breath. He was seriously getting too old for this. He had to quit soon. As soon as this next job was done, he could get out of it all.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Gallo hoped that Alice would believe him. He knew that this was going to be very dangerous. He couldn't do this alone, either. Eddie had to pretend to be his brother again for this.

Eddie was more than happy to oblige. He was still all excited from this morning's fun. So it was that as the sun was setting, he drove Gallo back to Alice's home.

Eddie had at least put away that one song from before. Now it was Billy Joel's "The Ballad of Billy the Kid". That had always been one of Gallo's favourite songs, and he joined Eddie in cheerfully singing along with old Joel in the car. All in all, a much happier car ride than the one driving towards Joe's place. Funny how that worked out.

Gallo waited for Eddie to replay the song for the third time before asking, "So you know what to say?"

Eddie snorted, "Motherfucker I know what to say better than you do."

This was probably true but Eddie hadn't meant it seriously: he was just making what he thought was a silly joke. Gallo felt irritated by the fact behind it, but the feeling slowly passed.

He began to feel nervous: Eddie had really hit a mark with his joke. Gallo wasn't sure what to say when he was going to tell Alice about the trip. She would definitely be suspicious, but if Eddie could act as convincingly as before, then she might believe him. Certainly she'd love to go down to Hawaii: she had always talked to Gallo about how she was saving up for a trip. Maybe Gallo had a chance.

Alice opened the door, smiling at Gallo's arrival. As always, Gallo noticed just how beautiful she was. He felt bad about how he was always lying to her.

Kissing her on the cheek, he put aside his panic, "How you doing, honey?

Alice shrugged, "Alright. What's the special occasion?" She nodded at Eddie, who to give his due, now looked as though he'd just gotten over a crying fit. His emotions were so well placed that he looked genuinely as though he was recovering from an immense tragedy in his life. If Gallo had any say at the Oscars, they should nominate Eddie for one.

Gallo gestured toward Eddie, "My brother just told me some amazing news. I want to tell you about it inside. Is this a bad time?"

Alice stepped to the side, "Sure, come on in, please!" Eddie gave her a watery smile as he walked in. Gallo rolled his eyes to himself.

Seating Eddie and Gallo down on the couch, Alice went to get them some coffee, ignoring Gallo's offers to help and Eddie pleas for no trouble.

Setting the cups on the little table in front of them, she sat on the couch on Gallo's other side, "Okay, so what is it you wanted to tell me, sweetie?" Gallo smiled at the name tag. She never usually called him names like that unless it was a special occasion. She could sense when something big was coming up.

Gallo spoke up, "Well, the thing is, my brother here called off the wedding, right? But the honeymoon was all in his money and name, so he could still go in theory."

Alice looked at Eddie, "So what does that have to do with us?" Both men could hear the anticipation in her voice.

Eddie spoke up, "Well, I can't get my money back, but for a special price I can bring more people along. So I'm going to bring some of my oldest friends, and some of my family. My dad, uncle, and brother here are coming too, and we're going down to Hawaii."

Gallo took over from here. Grabbing Alice's hand, he asked, "Do you want to come with me?"

Alice looked shocked at the idea of suddenly going down to Hawaii, and Gallo almost expected her to squeal with delight. Be that as it may, she lit up like a light bulb, quivering with excitement, "Are you serious? When is this?"

Eddie spoke up, "We leave in just over a week."

Alice faltered, "A week? Isn't that a bit quick?"

Eddie shrugged, "Well it's been arranged for a month now, but, of course, some things can't be..." He bowed his head a bit, and Gallo quickly put an arm around Eddie's shoulders as if to comfort him. Gallo could see that Eddie was pretending to restrain tears.

Alice immediately grabbed Eddie's cup of coffee, "Oh, I'm sorry, Eddie. I didn't mean to do that, I really didn't!" She looked half-ready to cry too, with guilt ridden all over her face. Gallo himself felt guilty about manipulating her this way.

Eddie composed himself, and accepted the cup, "No no, it's not your fault. It's just that I'm still getting over it. I'm doing much better now, though. Look, I really would appreciate it if you could come. I'm sure you and Tommy could have a great time together, and I'd have my dad and uncle, and my friends. It just seems to be a great idea, you know?"

Alice paused. She really wanted this, Gallo could tell. She was going over the things that would have to be taken care of, and seeing if strings could be pulled. Finally she smiled and whispered, "Thank you so much for this. I'd love to come."

Gallo felt little butterflies in his stomach take off. This was it. Once again he had been able to control and change the situation to prefer to his interests.

So far it looked pretty good. A free trip to Hawaii with the girl he loved, and then they could go home. And Gallo could put away all this shit about robbery, Joe, gangsters, and stick to his job, his girlfriend, and the life as he'd known it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

The seven men stared up at Joe from their seats as he talked. His raspy growls kept them riveted: they all knew this man to some extent or another, and they knew that he was telling them the rules that would either save them if followed, or kill them if broken.

Gallo didn't even look at the other guys. He felt vulnerable in this crowd: they were criminals, the lot of them. He wasn't exactly sure what they'd done, but that meant they could have done anything. He wondered if any of them were just average Joes like him, but he doubted it.

He'd almost jumped when he saw the old prune from last week, the day he'd gone out to Alice's for dinner. The guy hadn't even acknowledged their former acquaintance, and so he'd kept his own mouth shut.

After seeing the old guy, Gallo wasn't surprised that the shifty-eyed bearded fellow from the bus was also in the group. He'd looked like someone to avoid ever since Gallo had clapped eyes on him. The rest of them looked formidable too, but Gallo couldn't help but wonder if one or two of them were just pretending to be tough, but really they were in Gallo's position. Then again, he was going to be the only one not going into the jewelry store, so maybe that said something.

Joe rasped out, "Here are yer names."

He pointed at Gallo, "Mr. Brown."

He pointed to the next two guys, "Mr. White. Mr. Blonde."

He pointed to the back row, "Mr. Blue. Mr. Orange. And Mr. Pink."

The shifty eyed man suddenly spoke up, "Why am I Mr. Pink?"

"Cause you're a faggot, alright?" Joe snarled.

Gallo was the only one to laugh at that, but maybe it was also because he felt nervous.**  
**

Mr. Pink ignored Gallo's amusement, "Why can't we pick out our own colours?"

Joe shook his head, "No way, no way. I tried that once, it doesn't work. You get four guys, all fighting over who's gonna be Mr. Black. But they don't know each other, so nobody wants to back down. No way, I pick. Be thankful you're not Mr. Yellow."

Automatically, Gallo suddenly spoke up, seeing that now was a good time to voice his own grievances"Yeah, but Mr. Brown? That's too close to Mr. Shit."

Mr. Pink broke in, "Mr. Pink sounds like Mr. Pussy. How about I'm Mr. Purple. That sounds good to me, I'll be Mr. Purple.

Joe was getting aggravated, "You're not Mr. Purple, somebody from another job's Mr. Purple. You're Mr. Pink!"

The guy sitting next to Gallo, the guy named Mr. White, leaned in towards Mr. Pink, "Who cares what your name is?"

Mr. Pink stared at Mr. White, "That's easy for you to say, you're Mr. White, you have a cool sounding name!"

Gallo silently agreed. He may have been Mr. Brown, but he was definitely glad that he wasn't Mr. Yellow. One thing bothered him, though, and it was strange that this would bother him in a situation like this. But how the fuck hell did Joe come up with 'Mr. Blonde'? The guy was black-haired, for Christ's sake.

Joe's voice made Gallo pay attention again, but they were still arguing over Mr. Pink's name. Finally Mr. Pink shut up and leaned back on his seat. Joe paused, perhaps to catch his breath, and grated, "Let's go to work!"

"" "" "" " "" "" " "" " "" ""

Vermeer sat back, aloof to all the bitching from Mr. Pink. He'd actually seen two of these guys before, which surprised him. Mr. Orange was the guy he'd seen a few days ago in the diner, while Mr. Brown was the blabbermouth from the video store. Oh well. He didn't know any names, and even if he did get arrested, he'd keep his mouth shut. The police, he'd learned back in the day, like society, easily forgot war heroes.

The plan looked pretty simple to him. It could be done in a matter of three minutes if they scared the people into keeping quiet. Even if the alarm were triggered, it would still take the cops several minutes to get there. It looked pretty bullet-proof to him.

Eventually, the meeting ended, and Joe told them that he'd booked a table for six at Nat Philip's, which was a pretty fancy restaurant to eat at, and would cost a pretty penny. He told them that he'd already informed the manager to send the bill to him, and this was warning enough for the guys around not to waste his money on too much booze or a fifteen pound steak or whatever. The big point that Joe never mentioned was that this was a time for them to get comfortable with each other so that they could do the heist more efficiently. Vermeer approved of it, but Joe had picked the one night where Vermeer had actually pre-arranged dinner for himself.

Mr. Pink raised his hand, "I can't make it, Joe. Tonight's the last night before I get to finally quit. I've been waiting for two fucking weeks and I can finally leave the fucking place."

Vermeer stood up, "Yeah, I can't go either. I've already arranged dinner for myself. Tomorrow though."

Joe shrugged, "Fine. Meet each other for lunch or something. But I ain't paying for it two days in a row."

Vermeer smiled and headed for the door. He had his name down for Jack Rabbit Slims.

"" "" "" "" "" "" """ "" "" ""

When Vermeer got there, it was as if they'd waited for him and kept everything back until he showed up.

Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis were singing away over the speakers, and Jane Russell was standing there at the register in that same outfit that Vermeer had seen her in coming back from battle. God, Russel had been such a beauty, and he didn't doubt that she was still pretty- she must be around his age, anyway. Vermeer had seen two guys half kill each other for possession of one of those sweater girl photos that made her famous.

Walking through Jack Rabbit Slim's, Vermeer felt as though he were in a Hollywood film about his life. The 50's feel was certainly there, but in the most hyped-up fashion that a nostalgic man might have been offended. But Vermeer felt no ill will: the 50's had tried to be glamourous and used the gloss to hide the underlying shit. Vermeer was sure that if Harry S. Truman or Dwight Eisenhower could have seen this place, they would have laughed and gone along with the joke, knowing the truth deep in their hearts.

Of course, it could be much worse, Vermeer thought. Elvis wouldn't have been this popular on the radio back in the day: just goes to show how the public opinion could make a man famous. Vermeer didn't mind: old Elvis was still good after all these years.

He took a seat, examining the menu. As luck would have it, Brigitte Bardot was his waitress. Smiling down at him in the way that her job required her to, she asked, "So what can I get you tonight sir?"

Vermeer didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable but he couldn't help but notice that she looked exactly like Bardot, all the way down to the accent and if quick glances sufficed, her bra size.

Vermeer veered his eyes to his menu, "I'll take the Douglas Sirk steak please."

"Burnt to a crisp or bloody as hell?" Brigitte murmured as she wrote the order on a pad.

Vermeer paused, revelling in the sensuality of the voice, remembering how she had caused an uproar just be acting sexual. Nowadays boys couldn't get hard-ons unless they saw skin. Back then they didn't see skin 'til they were married, and a girl just had to sound sexy to excite him something big.

Making his voice sound thoughtful, and to buy time, he asked, "Nothing in between those two?"

Brigitte shrugged, "I suppose I could ask the cook to make an exception, sure."

Vermeer paused, then waved his hand, "Nah, never mind that. I'll just take it bloody as hell."

"Anything to drink?"

Vermeer was certain now that this girl was genuinely French. He looked up, "I'll take the Scotch, please."

Jotting it down, Brigitte gave a quick smile, "I'll be right back with the drink." She walked off. Vermeer forced himself not to look after her: he wasn't a teenage boy for God's sake.

The drink came just as the music changed from Elvis to something else that Vermeer couldn't identify. Sipping sparingly at his Scotch, he wondered what his old buddies would have thought of this place. Certainly Joe would have hated it here. He would have fucking despised the place. But some of the others would have sat here and laughed their asses off. Vermeer thought back to that time: he had never noticed during the war, but always afterwards, that the time where he'd fought on the Pacific had been the simplest time of his life. There'd been no question of what he had to do, or what was coming up. When he'd come back from the war, he had been completely out of place with the usual way of life for American men. He was unmarried, unemployed, and uneducated. What a change the 50's were from the 30's, where an honest man could live on physical labour and families were a burden that worsened your chances of survival. He had learned all that during the Depression: he'd had no choice.

He looked around again. He could name every single personality in this place. There was James Dean, right down there, looking so out of place obediently taking orders. And there was Marilyn Monroe, holding her skirt down in the classic image. And there was Buddy Holly, hair and all...

Vermeer almost choked on his drink. Buddy Holly was Mr Pink! Sweet Jesus Christ! Mr. Pink was working_ here_? Vermeer tried not to laugh. The heist was in two days and here he was, working in Jack Rabbit Slim's. He's either an eccentric professional or a major amateur, Vermeer thought. He better know what he's doing.

Vermeer shook his head. Now he really couldn't get caught or else he'd be able to tell them where two of the other guys worked, _and _give them someone else to trace against Mr. Orange. Whoever that black guy was, they could connect him to Orange and then Orange would join Joe, Eddie, Pink, and Brown on the list of people that Vermeer could turn in.

Well, here's one thing for sure, Vermeer thought as the steak was laid down in front of him, the fucking police are never taking me alive if this goes down badly. He would make sure of that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Looking at Mr. Pink as he ate his lunch, Vermeer could see that the mustache and beard were fake. It was almost impossible to see it, and Vermeer had to really fucking squint to see anything. He almost wanted to see Mr. Pink's face when he asked him to sing a bit of "Peggy Sue" or "That'll be the Day".

Vermeer glanced, out of the corner of his eyes, at Mr. Pink as he lifted the coffee mug to his lips and drink. When he was finished, the mustache was untouched.

My God, Vermeer thought, this guy was good. Nobody could notice the facial hair as being pasted on. Must hurt like hell to peel off.

He said nothing about it of course: he wasn't going to make an ass of himself. He merely chatted with the others as they ate their lunch in a small diner called Big Kahuna. Mr. White had picked a booth by the window: suspicious guy, making sure nobody was tailed. Really smart, Vermeer thought, compared to some of these other idiots. Mr. Orange for one was nothing more than a little pussy that bluffed too loudly. Mr. Brown was even more of a loud mouth.

Still, at least Mr. Brown said stuff that was mildly interesting. Mr. Orange was quiet, and when he spoke, he sounded obnoxious in Vermeer's opinion.

As Vermeer listened, Mr. Brown went into a discussion about how Francis Ford Coppola was a genius for making _The Godfather Part 3_ so good, but was still an idiot to replace Winona friggin Ryder with his daughter. The girl couldn't act for shit, he ranted, and Vermeer couldn't help but agree.

Mr. Blonde looked jaded as he crammed bits of burger into his mouth, taking noisy slurps of his Sprite in between. Mr. White fastidiously cut pieces of steak with the biggest knife in the goddamn diner. Vermeer himself had not taken steak for once: he'd ordered chicken fingers with fries. He'd also taken a Coke but had had to take another after finishing it so quickly.

Mr. Brown had moved on from the third _Godfather_ film to the first two, and was having an argument with Mr. Pink about which was better. Mr. Pink seemed only half-interested, while Mr. Orange seemed to only talk to Mr. White. Mr. White was far more social, but Orange clung to the older man like a leech. Vermeer couldn't help but remember the old negro in the diner and how Orange had embraced him like a friend.

Even if he _had_ gotten out of such a bad situation as being in a bathroom with four LAPD officers and a bag of drugs, he was still an insolent little pup. A pup with too much attitude and neither bark nor bite. That was even worse than Mr. Brown, who was a little puppy that was all bark and no bite.

Vermeer looked at Mr. Blonde. There had been men in his platoon who were like Blonde. Blonde was a man who would never be broken, bribed, or intimidated. Blonde seemed to have a certain psychopathic touch in his head that actually made him the perfect man to have in a crime organization. Vermeer couldn't help but remember Luca Brasi from _The Godfather_ when he saw the way Mr. Blonde was. He seemed to imply the worst, even at rest or at a casual gathering. Nobody but Vermeer recognized it, so it seemed, but it was hard to tell if you hadn't been around such men in the war.

"Hey, Mr. Blue,' Mr. White spoke over his thoughts, 'Could you pass me the salt?"

Vermeer gave him the salt, and then looked to what Mr. Brown was rambling about so that he wouldn't look scared. The guy laughed too quick at other people's jokes, he could get into these long monologues, but he wasn't trying to be an asshole, so Vermeer was lenient.

Mr. Brown immediately projected a question onto Vermeer, "Hey, what do you think was better? _Platoon_ or _Full Metal Jacket_?"

Vermeer thought about it, "I liked _Full Metal Jacket_ better."

Mr. Brown looked surprised, "You mean you didn't think _Platoon_ was a good film?"

"I didn't say that. I said I thought _Full Metal Jacket_ was the superior film."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well... I don't know, the whole scene on the island was really well-made."

Mr. Brown shook his head, "Okay I'll be fair, I'll give you that, the island training was great. But seriously, how could you place the shitty Vietnam scenes above the whole fucking movie in _Platoon_? I mean, in _Platoon_, you feel like you're with these guys in the jungle, you know? The fucking Vietnam veterans all relate to this film." Mr. Brown's whole mind set seemed riveted on this conversation. He didn't even notice a fly buzzing around his face.

Vermeer broke in, "Sure, that's great and all, but I'm not a Vietnam veteran, and I can relate more to Full Metal Jacket."

"How?" Mr. Brown asked incredulously.

Vermeer spoke again, "_Full Metal Jacket_ is meant to represent all wars. Why the fuck do you think there was no footage shot in the jungle? He wanted to show the effects of war."

Mr. Brown raised his eyebrows, "And it did it's job better than _Platoon_?"

Vermeer frowned, "Aren't you making a bit of a big deal about this? They're both good films, for God's sake."

Mr. Brown shrugged and resumed eating. Vermeer sighed and took out one of the Cuban cigars that Joe had given him as a present. He was tired and wanted to go to bed early tonight. The robbery was tomorrow, and then he'd be finished with this shit.

He looked over at Mr. White, "So when do we meet Joe for breakfast?" Joe had said he was going to pay for breakfast on the day of the heist, then he was going to arrange things before meeting them at the warehouse that they'd found as their rendezvous point.

Mr. White thought about it, "He said something like eight in the morning."

Vermeer nodded, then picked up another piece of chicken. It really was good food. He ought to order some more for later.

"" "" "" " "" " """" "" "" "" " "" "" ""

Gallo still felt a bit intimidated by the others, but they hadn't done anything to antagonize him so far. He wondered if they knew that Alice was going to come with them. Would Joe tell them not to talk about their crime lives even after the robbery was done?

Probably: Joe wasn't stupid. He would probably tell them later on or something. Or maybe he'd keep Alice and Gallo away from the others. Gallo didn't know for sure, but he hoped that it all turned out okay.

Meanwhile he tried to concentrate on his food for once, which was pretty cooled off by the time he got to it. He wondered what he was going to do after lunch. Probably pack or something. He would have to ask Joe to pre-set his belongings so that he could go pick up Alice, who'd be waiting with her own stuff. Hopefully everything would go smoothly.

Just to make sure, Gallo went to call Joe after lunch. The gravelly voice answered slowly, "Who's this?"

Gallo was paying from a pay phone, "Yeah Joe, it's me. Am I calling at a bad time?"

"No. What is it?" Joe's voice sounded suspicious. Perhaps he was trying to guess why Gallo would be calling him now.

Gallo was nervous, "Is it all arranged about me and Alice?"

Joe's voice immediately sounded more relaxed, "Yeah yeah. Eddie already called her. He's gonna get one of our guys to get her and bring her to the airport. Make sure you give her your luggage. The guy will take care of it. Don't worry about anything, okay? You're gonna drive them outta there, to the warehouse, and everything will go as planned."

Gallo was relieved. He had it right now, "Thanks a lot, Joe. So how long are we gonna be away?"

Joe paused over the phone, "Give it a month or so. I'm not sure exactly how long."

"I just need to know because of my store, you know."

"Tell them a month."

"Okay." He hung up.

Joe. He might as well have been called Corleone. Well, maybe not that. Perhaps more of that new mobster, "Goodfellas" or whatever. Paulie Cicero. Yeah that guy seemed more like Joe's type.

Gallo went home to pack. He wondered what he would do about his store. Who was going to look after it?

He went down to the video store, where he knew the two guys were working. Both of them were good guys, loyal, never stealing from him. He made doubly sure: they had replaced ten other guys who'd been fired for theft.

They looked up when Gallo came in. Gallo gave it to them straight: he was going on a vacation for about a month. Gallo told them that he'd be calling up once a week, and that he knew he could trust them to be honest.

Next, Gallo went home and began to pack. He took his one tuxedo and set it aside for the next day. They were all supposed to be wearing tuxedoes for the robbery, but Gallo wasn't entirely sure why. Oh well. Whatever it fucking took to get it over with.

As Gallo packed the one suitcase he had, a piece of black bile seemed to be growing in the back of his throat. He was about to be involved in a robbery, where he may need to use the gun that was hidden under his pillow, and then he would go on a paid vacation with the other five guys for a month. All the while he would be lying to Alice and covering it up.

If Gallo hadn't been used to this feeling welling up inside of him, he would have become completely lost in the despair. But he'd grown used to having to shove his real fear down into his gut, so this was just another one of those times. As Gallo had always done every time he'd had this feeling, he convinced himself that it would be the last time he would have to do this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11  
**

Vermeer sat in his hotel room. He flipped through the pages of a Hustler magazine that he'd bought in the afternoon.

He sat in the room, amongst the cheap hotel furniture, with almost no sign of anyone even booking this room. Vermeer had turned in most of his belongings to Joe, who would take care of them until they got to Hawaii.

He sat back in the bed, wondering just how many ways they could show naked females. Either way it was the same thing being shown over and over, albeit different girls.

Vermeer sighed. He was bored. Not only was he too old to be aroused by cheap pictures of girls more than half his age, but he was too dignified to allow himself to be aroused. Anyone who called him a gay old man was an ignorant little son of a bitch. He would much rather know the woman whose privacy he was invading. These girls were just giving it away for a price. That was the problem of these days: call him old-fashioned, but America was losing its compassion. It had nothing to do with that religious crap that had always been targeting these things, but maybe he was on their side.

Flipping through, he almost dropped the magazine in surprise.

A lithe-looking Chinese girl stared out at him, giving that phony smile. She was pretty flat-chested, but even Vermeer could see the lean muscles in her arms and legs. She had long hair that reached down to her nipples. If she had let her hair fall down her front, she could have hidden her breasts completely. Her eyes were narrow, emphasized by the makeup.

Vermeer stared in horror: he had forgotten that he might come to a picture like this. It reminded him too much of the painful experiences with his wife.

He had loved her, and lusted her. She had been so goddamn beautiful. For a man that had spent more than four years killing Japs, he had loved that Far Eastern look. And she had been especially pretty. Vermeer could remember crooning her name even as she undressed.

Toby. He could have said that name ten times, and it would sound lovelier with every new pronounciation.

Vermeer closed the magazine, even as he remembered his wife. He wasn't going to disgrace her memory with this filth. Tears came to his eyes as he thought of how she had awkwardly undressed in front of him. Her culture was such that she knew that a husband had the right, yet it had almost been as painful for Vermeer as it had been for her. She had found herself alone in a country that she had thought would help her, and he had been the best man she could see. And they had both known that that hadn't meant much. She had been sixteen, the same age he had been when he had lied his way into the war. He had been four years older than her, and like her, he was coming back from a war that had changed his life.

Joe had found it funny that Vermeer found this thin little girl to marry, but he had always been polite to her for Vermeer's sake. She herself never learned English very well, and even if she had, then she tried not to speak to Joe. Vermeer could sense that she had feared him. Certainly he was a man to intimidate the people around him. So he had seen Joe less and less for her sake.

He had tried to be a good man for her. He didn't lay a hand on her for the first week of their marriage. She had looked so resigned, so helpless, that it killed him to think that her body was legally his. Nobody would help her if she tried to run away, or if she was cruelly beaten.

So he had slept beside her, not daring to give reason for her to hate him. He had tried to be courteous to her, despite the language barrier. But everything seemed to be the wrong thing on Vermeer's part. He couldn't understand what she wanted.

She herself was obedient in her duties as a wife, despite his own diffidence. She always changed in front of him, though whether it was an attempt at seduction or what she considered necessary, Vermeer never found out. She always cooked the meals, her passive, silent determination seemingly barring him from taking over. It seemed an insult to not allow her to control the kitchen. Vermeer tried to show his gratitude, but always that passive face. It hurt him deeply to never know whether she was happy or not.

During this time, Vermeer did little jobs for Joe, helping him in his rise in the crime underworld. Joe was always generous to loyalty, and Vermeer lived decently. He didn't complain: he knew that it would get better. While he helped out Joe, he also did some small contracts with others on the side. All his life, he made sure that they never got near Toby. He guarded her with his life, though he didn't know if she would do the same thing.

She prospered, though. Vermeer gave her gifts in an attempt to get some emotion out of her. Aside from the cheap wedding ring that he had given her during the service, he gave her earrings, necklaces, little things to show his kindness. She never showed anything from it.

One thing seemed to break through, though. A little silver arm band, easily slipping over her own slender arm. No matter how old she had gotten, she was always skinny. She wore it all the time that he saw her. Even in bed, when they had lain together, that armband was there. He didn't know why she didn't take it off, but she never answered.

Of course, this lifestyle was affected by Vermeer's jobs, no matter how careful he was. In 1970, Klaus Vermeer, war hero from the fights in the Southeast, was arrested for being involved in a drug deal. He had almost shot killed a police officer trying to escape, and that went into his sentence.

Ten years. He was lucky not to get more: the officer he'd shot should have been killed with a bullet into his eye, but instead he'd gotten an ugly scar across his skull. The negro bastard had given Vermeer the biggest ass smile when his sentence had been given, and Vermeer had wanted to knock every single tooth out of that smile.

But he was terrified of what would happen to Toby. Without him, one of his enemies could get to him through her. She had been brought in to testify, and she had mostly been calm throughout the whole case. She seemed to give no hard evidence against him, Vermeer could tell by the angry looks from the prosecutors, who had a translator handy for her questioning.

Then the translator told her of the business he was in and how he was still working part-time for Joe, and possibly responsible for at least thirty murders (he had in fact been responsible for four of them). She had begun to cry and finger the silver armband around her wrist, and the translator, an arrogant Chinese cop, had demanded she give an answer. She said that she had had no idea. Vermeer could have wept. He bowed his head, fearing her gaze more than anything on Earth or under it. He feared her disapproval so much at that moment that he had not looked at her after that.

One of Joe's guys came in to see him, to tell him that Joe was working on getting him out, and Vermeer had begged Joe to look after Toby. He asked the guy to give Toby a message.

It wasn't necessary. Toby came in to see him a month afterwards. She looked terrified in that visiting room. Vermeer stared at her in shock. She looked at him with that same face that he knew so well. But there, in her eyes, was an emotion. It was an emotion of worry, of hoping that he was okay. Vermeer was astonished at this. Was she genuinely showing her affections? Or was she merely carrying out some kind of loyalty to him? He couldn't guess. He did notice that her armband was gone, though, and he wondered what had happened to it.

He would never get the chance to ask her, though. Her prison visit was the last time he ever saw her. When he was released and he went home, she wasn't there.

And in a sense, that had been the worst part of it all. Not the humiliation of being in jail, not the niggers that would have killed him had they the chance, not the conditions of living like an animal. It was her departure that made him weep, feel worse than he'd ever felt before.

Vermeer thought of all that in that hotel room. The tears flowed in the comfort of privacy. Toby. Where had she gone? Where was she now? He had never asked Joe where she was. He had offered his deepest sympathies and had begged him forgiveness.

Vermeer noticed he still held the Hustler magazine. In a sudden surge of absolute fury, he tore it to little pieces and threw them out of his hotel window.

A few hours later, when he had composed himself, he went out of his room. He wanted to go get a drink, as he usually did after remembering Toby. But he never got drunk: even now after all these years, he never got drunk. It was a habit he'd gotten into after the Second World War. He had known that Toby always waited for him to come home, and he didn't want her to see him drunk.

**Note from Author.: **_One thing you should try is to listen to the Centurions' "Bullwinkle Part 2" during the flashback, and Johnny Cash's "Hurt" when it jumps back to Vermeer in the present day. It allowed me to sink into the mood of this scene so much better as I wrote it down._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Gallo sat down on his bed, listening to Madonna's "Like a Virgin". It was nine o'clock at night, and his suitcase lay at the foot of the bed. He felt a dull excitement in him about going down to Hawaii: it was, of course, going to be his first trip out of the state of California. Really cool idea actually.

He sat up, knowing that he had to bring the suitcase to Alice for safe-keeping. Gallo grabbed the phone and began dialing numbers.

"Hello?" Alice's voice came up.

"It's me." Gallo spoke.

"Oh hey, Tommy. I was just gonna call you. How's it going to work tomorrow?"

Gallo smiled at the coincidence, "I'm going to give you my suitcase and then someone's going to come and pick you up. A friend of Eddie's, you can trust him. You'll meet up with us at the airport, and we go to Hawaii."

Alice laughed, "Yeah it's great! I wanted to thank you for giving me this. This is going to be a great trip."

Gallo sighed, the guilt building up in him.

Suddenly Alice spoke again, "But Tommy, one thing before this happens. I need to go to the store tomorrow. I have to return something I bought there."

Gallo paused, "Oh. Well, can you make it soon as possible?"

"Oh yeah, of course."

"Great. The guy will just wait for you if he gets there early. But I'm going to give you my suitcase, okay? I'll be right there."

The trip was short. Gallo didn't notice anything around him. He was too busy with his thoughts. He didn't know how this was going to happen. He was nervous as though he was already there.

Alice opened the door, and Gallo brought in the suitcase. As always, he seemed to notice for the first time just how beautiful she was.

She smiled at Gallo, "You excited?"

Gallo nodded, staring into her eyes. The sincerity in her just enhanced her looks. There was such a pure goodness in her that he was astonished that she'd fallen for a guy like him.

Alice suddenly looked concerned, "Is your brother feeling better?"

Gallo almost said, 'Who?' before catching himself, "Oh he's lookin' forward to this thing too. He's getting a bunch of his buddies and our uncle is gonna be there, and our dad Joe. You'll like him, but he's a bit stern."

Alice rolled her eyes, "Tommy, baby, you're telling me this after seeing my uncle?"

Gallo suddenly remembered something that he hadn't told either Joe or Eddie.

Her uncle was a cop. He would be a bit suspicious if they went off just after a robbery had taken place. Would he suspect Gallo?

Even as he suspected this, he noticed Alice looked a bit concerned. Maybe she had been thinking of that too.

She spoke, "Tommy how many of Eddie's buddies are going to be there?"

Gallo realized what was bothering her and he relaxed, "Oh, there's going to be four guys there."

"Do you know them?"

Gallo paused, "You don't think my brother would associate with criminals, do you?"

Alice looked a bit embarrassed, "Well, I didn't mean it like that. I don't know. It's just that I'm not too sure about this whole thing."

Gallo suddenly feared that she would figure it out, "Alice, would I do anything to hurt you?" He meant that when he said it. He would never have done any of this if he had thought she would get hurt. That there was a small chance only meant he had to overcome the chance.

Alice looked at him, "I never thought you would mean to hurt me."

Gallo held her hands, "Come on, this isn't anything bad. It's just a family outing, and I want you to come with me. Please."

Alice still looked uncertain for a moment, then her doubt melted away, "Sure."

Gallo kissed her in his happiness. She was coming! It was as good as done!

Alice broke off the kiss, "When do you have to meet up with those guys?"

"Eight o' clock." Gallo answered breathlessly.

Alice looked upstairs, "It's still pretty early."

Gallo was suddenly filled with lust as he and Alice began hurrying up the stairs, holding her hand as though he would never let go.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 12**

Vermeer felt uncomfortable in his tuxedo. He hadn't worn it in five years. He didn't want to wear it again after this.

He was sitting with Mr. Blonde on his right, and Mr. Pink on his left. Mr. White and Mr. Orange were right across from him. In between Orange and Blonde was Mr. Brown, and in between White and Pink were Joe and Eddie.

The restaurant was nice, Vermeer reasoned to himself. The food had been good, and the waitress was a nice little girl who obliged to refill his cup. Pulling out his cigars, Vermeer lit one and began to smoke. Joe was looking at something clutched in his hands, while the others were involved in a conversation about whatever the fuck it was.

At this moment, he was listening to the other guys talking about Madonna. What the fuck? How did they get to this as a serious topic?

"Toby? Who the fuck is Toby?" Joe suddenly said.

Vermeer almost stared at Joe in shock. Did he just hear him right?

Vermeer glanced at the object in Joe's hand. Joe was handling a little black address book, looking at one of the pages. Vermeer remembered the book. It was the book that Joe had kept since the Second World War.

Vermeer felt angry: how the fucking hell did he not remember Toby? Sure, he had rarely seen her, but that girl had been the love of Vermeer's life!

Before Vermeer could think anything else, Mr. Brown was leading Blonde, Orange, and Pink in a conversation about Madonna. Vermeer knew that he couldn't say anything to Joe now: he had to hide his identity. He couldn't talk about it here. Despite the anger he suddenly felt towards Joe, he kept his best poker face, developed over so many years since Toby had lived with him.

To distract himself, he tried to follow the conversation. They were talking about "True Blue", the album. Incredibly, Mr. Orange hadn't heard of it.

"Personally I can do without her." Mr. Blonde commented.

Vermeer chimed in between his after-breakfast cigar, "I like her early stuff. You know,"Lucky Star," "Borderline" - but once she got into her "Papa Don't Preach" phase, I tuned out."

"But you guys are making me lose my track of thought, here! I was saying something what was it?" Mr. Brown frowned, trying to remember what he was saying. Vermeer cynically thought that if Brown had been talking about a movie, he'd never have forgotten.

"Oh, Toby's that little Chinese girl. What was her last name?" Joe mused to himself.

"What's that?" Mr. White asked. He looked pretty irritated.

"It's an old address book I found in a coat I haven't worn in a coon's age. What was that name?" Joe asked himself. The guy looked obsessed with remembering Toby, Vermeer thought to himself.

He wanted so fucking badly to yell at Joe, 'Toby's name was Cheng. She was Toby Cheng, and then she became Toby fucking Vermeer! And you forget that?' He couldn't believe how angry he was getting at Joe, this good friend of his, but the guy must be losing his fucking mind.

Mr. Brown was regaining control of the conversation. He began giving his own stupid view on the meaning of "Like a Virgin".

Let me tell ya what "Like a Virgin"'s about. It's about some cooze who's a regular fuck machine. I mean all the time, morning, day, night, afternoon, dick, dick,dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick, dick!"

Vermeer frowned, "How many dicks is that?"

"A lot." Mr. White said laconically. He must have focused in on Mr. Brown's rant at the same time that Vermeer had, and for the same reason: Joe kept saying names out loud to himself trying to remember what Toby's last name had been. None of the names he mentioned was Cheng.

Mr. Brown went on, "Then one day she meets a John Holmes motherfucker, and it's like, whoa baby. This mother fucker's like Charles Bronson in "The Great Escape." He's diggin tunnels. Now she's gettin this serious dick action, she's feelin something she ain't felt since forever. Pain."

"Chew? Toby Chew?" Joe muttered. Vermeer restrained himself not to look at Joe in anger.

Nothing deterred Mr. Brown, "It hurts. It hurts her. It shouldn't hurt. Her pussy should be Bubble-Yum by now. But when this cat fucks her, it hurts. It hurts like the first time. The pain is reminding a fuck machine what is was like to be a virgin. Hence, "Like a Virgin."" He looked smug with himself as he finished. Vermeer wanted to slap this idiot around. "Like a Virgin" so obviously wasn't about that: this kid had it all wrong.

"Wong..." Joe said to himself.

Vermeer would have snapped then, but then suddenly Mr. White acted first. Grabbing the book out of Joe's hands, he cursed in his anger.

Joe got pissed quick, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Give me my book back!"

Mr. White was undeterred, "I'm sick of fucking hearing it, Joe. I'll give it back to you when we leave."

Joe wasn't used to being disobeyed, "What do you mean when we leave? Give it back now!"

Vermeer snickered to himself. Joe sounded like a little baby, but nobody would ever say that to him; old and fat though he was, he was a tough bastard, and he also had Eddie sitting at the table with him.

Mr. White spoke again, "For the past fifteen minutes now, you've just been droning on with names. "Toby...Toby...Toby... Toby Wong...Toby Wong...Toby Chung...fuckin Charlie Chan." I got Madonna's big dick outta my left ear, and Toby the Jap I-don't- know-what, comin' outta my right."

Beside him, Mr. Orange began laughing at his friend's defiance.

Joe's voice dropped dangerously, "Give me that book."

Mr. White raised an eyebrow, "You gonna put it away?"

"I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I want with it!"

"Well then I'm afraid I'm gonna have to keep it." Mr. White tucked it away.

"Hey Joe,' Mr. Blonde spoke softly, 'You want me to shoot this guy?" Mr. Brown laughed, but only Vermeer noticed that Blonde's hand was straying towards the pocket where his gun was. Jesus, this guy played hell with joking and seriousness, Vermeer thought.

Mr. White didn't notice, "You shoot me in a dream you'd better wake up and apologize." He laughed at his own wit.

Eddie and Mr. Pink began chatting about K-BILLY's super sounds of the seventies weekend. Vermeer didn't listen to it, so he tuned out again.

Finally, Joe stood up, "Alright. I'll take care of the cheque. You guys can get the tip. Should be about a buck apiece." He turned on Mr. White, "And _you_! When I come back I want my book!"

Mr. White smiled, "Sorry, it's my book now!"

Joe turned to Mr. Blonde, "Hey I changed my mind. Shoot this piece of shit, will ya?"

Mr. Blonde smiled, mimed a shot with his hand, while Vermeer noticed his other hand actually close on his gun. This guy was a guy to be watched.

Eddie grinned, "Alright everyone cough up some green for the little lady."

Everyone but Mr. Pink threw in a dollar bill. He sat there, stroking that fake goatee on his chin. Vermeer would have guessed that he was making sure it was on there.

Eddie noticed him, "Come on, throw in a buck."

Mr. Pink didn't go for his wallet, "Uh-uh I don't tip."

Eddie looked again, "You don't tip?"

Mr. Pink was serious, "No I don't believe in it."

Eddie still thought he was joking, "You don't believe in tipping?"

Vermeer got pissed; this guy didn't believe in tipping and he worked as a waitor? What the fuck?

He broke in, "You know what these girls make? They make _shit_." He emphasized the 'shit', hoping that Mr. Pink would get the message that someone knew about his part-time job.

If Pink realized, he didn't show it, "Don't give me that, if she don't make enough money she can quit."

Mr. Blonde laughed, while Eddie was still getting around it, "I don't know a fucking Jew who would have the balls to say that! Let me get this straight, you don't ever tip?"

Mr. Pink looked at Eddie, "I don't tip because society says I have to. Alright, I mean, I'll tip if someone really deserves it. If they really put forth the effort, I'll give in a little extra. But tipping automatically, that's for the birds. I mean as far as I'm concerned, they're just doing their job." Eddie laughed in astonishment.

Vermeer found that unfair, "Hey this girl was nice."

"She was nice, she wasn't anything special."

"What's special? Taking you out back and sucking your dick?" Vermeer taunted.

While the others laughed, Eddie considered that, and added, "I'd go over twelve percent for that."

Mr. Pink retaliated, "Look I ordered coffee. We've been here a long fucking time and she's only refilled my cup three times. When I order coffee, I want it filled six times."

Mr. Blonde was goaded into talking, "Six times? What if she's too fucking busy?"

"The words too fuckng busy shouldn't be in a waitress's vocabulary."

Eddie put an arm around Pink's shoulders, "Excuse me, Mr. Pink, but the last fucking thing you need is another cup of coffee."

Mr. Pink shrugged it off, "For Christ's sake these ladies aren't starving to death. They make minimum wage! I used to work minimum wage, and when I did, I wasn't lucky enough to have a job that society deemed tip-worthy."

Vermeer knew that that was bull shit. Mr. Pink was trying to hide his identity by throwing a false trail. The clever asshole.

He spoke again, "You don't care that they're counting on your tips to live?"

Mr. Pink gave him a look- Vermeer was convinced afterwards that Pink knew that Vermeer knew about his cover- and smoothly put two fingers together, rubbing them, "You know what this is? It's the world's smallest violin playing just for the waitresses."

Vermeer snorted and zoned out. This punk was as sick as Blonde, but in different ways. He was surrounded by idiots.

He glanced at the others as Mr. White lectured Pink on waitressing, while Orange tried to be funny by claiming to have been convinced. Vermeer grunted, and was almost glad to see Joe again.

"Alright ramblers, let's get rambling!" He stooped to get the dollars, "Wait a minute! Who didn't throw in?"

Orange took the moment to pipe up again, "Mr. Pink." He sounded like a little school boy snitching his peers out. Fucking wimp.

Joe looked at Pink, "Mr. Pink? Why not?"

Orange talked again, "He don't tip."

Joe looked from Orange back to Pink, "He don't tip? What do you mean you don't tip?"

Orange spoke a third time, "He don't believe in it."

Joe had had enough, "Shut up!"

He turned on Pink, "What do you mean you don't believe in it? Come on you, cough up a buck you cheap bastard! I paid for your goddamn breakfast!"

Pink caved, as Vermeer knew he would, and they finally got out of the fucking restaurant. As they headed for their cars, Vermeer noticed that someone had put a boom box on their window sill and was blasting out "Little Green Bag" by the George whatever band. Vermeer found it funny that the song was playing just as they were walking down the street.

Vermeer was relieved as he puffed his cigar. Now they could get this shit over with. Damn, but that song was fitting.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14  
**

Vermeer had two guns thrust in his belt, and also a gun in his gloved hands. Mr. Blonde was being especially careful, wearing two gloves on each hand. Vermeer and Blonde were both crowd control, while Pink and White took care of the diamonds. That left Orange- far more worthy of being called Mr. Pink, Vermeer reckoned- to be lookout, while Mr. Brown sat in the getaway car and waited for the signal.

This is just another heist, he thought as he sat in the car, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Joe had left in his own car, arranging the other part of the heist. Eddie was gonna meet them at the warehouse with his dad. That left the six of them, or as Orange childishly put in, the Sinister Six, to start the robbery of the jewelry store.

They sat in the car, listening to Peter Gabriel's "Sledgehammer" on the radio. By mutual agreement, the moment the song ended, they would head in. There was thirty seconds left on the song.

Vermeer wondered what the fuck these guys would be like when they were his age. Blonde would never live to see his fiftieth birthday, let alone his sixtieth. The guy was too wild, and while he was in his prime now, someday a younger psycho like him would kill him. Mr. White, by far the most competent of the five guys, Vermeer reckoned, was already in his late forties early fifties anyway. Orange and Brown, both in their twenties, wouldn't stand a fucking chance as criminals. Mr. Pink was the slyest one of them all and he'd probably live longer than even Mr. White. The guy knew his stuff.

Vermeer thought about this as the last bars of "Sledgehammer" faded away. Immediately, the guy on the radio took out the last ten seconds of the song and put on "Fast to Madness" by Blind Guardian. Vermeer had never heard of this band before, but they were the perfect alarm clock.

As though electrodes from the song had licked everyone in the car, they got out and headed for the store as fast as they could without running. Mr. Brown kept moving, seeking a spot to park the car on the other side of the street. It was a good thing he'd let them out on the far side of the store, because then any innocent bystander could have seen them getting out of the car.

Pushing the doors open with his gloved hands, Mr. Blonde roared out, "Everybody freeze!" Pulling out both guns, he waved them around in his arms, and Vermeer wouldn't have been surprised if the man started shooting. He too began pushing people down on the grounds. It was just a routine by now, he thought. He knew exactly what to do in this situation.

He noticed Mr. Blonde talking again, "Alright, you cunts. If anyone touches the alarm I'll shoot every mother fucking one of you." He looked as if he was waiting for someone to pull the alarm. Vermeer knew someone would; people were strange like that.

Meanwhile, while Blonde and Vermeer were taking care of the tellers and the customers, Orange was positioning himself by the doors, while White and Pink frog-marched the manager to the back. Vermeer began organizing the hostages in a line, making sure that they saw the other two guns at his waist.

One girl, a young black girl, stared in horror at them. They had sunglasses on, but it looked like the girl was memorizing their faces for when she reported them to the police.

Mr. Blonde noticed her too, "Hey, unless you want to suck me dry, put your head down and look at the floor." He wasn't yelling anymore. He sounded in control, like he was God with divine right. He certainly was the most powerful guy in this scene.

They'd been in for thirty seconds and already the people were cowed and on their knees. Blonde and Vermeer paced among their ranks, staring balefully at them through their sunglasses. Orange kept himself amused pointing his gun at people coming into the store.

Vermeer then counted the hostages again, just to be sure. He had seen about twenty people when he'd first walked in. There were twenty-two people on the floor. He looked at Blonde, "How many people were there?"

Blonde shrugged, "Check around for anyone else if you want, I've got these guys down." He sounded bored. He'd done this to the point of pure routine. Just like Vermeer, but he was half the older man's age. Vermeer almost felt jealous at this guy's professionalism.

One of the cashier guys called out, "You'll never get away with this, you fucking bastards! They'll have your descriptions in the paper by tomorrow!"

"Shut the motherfucker up!" Orange yelled from the entrance.

The black girl backed the brave guy up, "You boys won't beat the cops." She sounded angry, but Vermeer could sense a contempt that seemed purified in the moment. He would have almost felt embarrassed in the face of this integrity. He pointed his gun at her to shut her up, just as he noticed how great she looked despite her anger.

Blonde was less discreet, "Shut the fuck up you nigger." He said it calmly, but with a lot of threat in his voice.

If anything, she was even angrier that somebody would call her that. Vermeer felt his respect for Blonde lower; the insult wasn't necessary in his opinion.

The employee reddened, "Don't you dare say that to her you cocksucker!"

Vermeer groaned, even as Blonde stepped forward and broke the guy's nose.

Blonde looked around at Orange, "You see anything?" Orange shook his head.

He looked back to the hostages, but then suddenly the defiant one broke off from the others. He knew he had no chance getting to the counter, so he went right for one of the display cases. Vermeer suddenly felt panic. He didn't want to shoot his gun for fear of hitting the display case, but also because it would mean order was gone.

Blonde was less aware of those consequences. He fired his gun for the back of the guy's head. The display case suddenly turned opaque from the blood.

Several things seemed to happen at once then to Vermeer.

The black girl screamed in horror, as did many of the other hostages.

The man's body, still in movement at the time of death, landed on the floor in a meaty thud.

The black girl, motivated by vengeance and desperation, leaped for Vermeer.

In his astonishment, Vermeer was no match for the much younger woman. The gun he was holding was wrenched out his hand,

The young woman seemed to know that Blonde wouldn't care if Vermeer was killed. He'd kill her all the same. So she did what the two men feared most. She pointed the gun at the show cases and fired off several rounds.

Immediately, the alarm went off with a wail. Mr. Blonde cursed in anger, even as he emptied a load on the girl. She fell to the ground, dead before she fell.

Picking up the gun from where the girl had dropped it, Vermeer couldn't help but admire her courage. She had actually stood up to two guys with guns and had fucked everything up for them. That was definitely something. He felt sorry that she'd had to have been in the store.

Suddenly a series of shots rang out, startling Vermeer out of his thought. Looking up from the young woman's body, he saw that Blonde was shooting the other three clerks from the jewelry store with sadistic ease. Vermeer knew then that Mr. Blonde was out of control.

"What the fuck is going on here!" It was Mr. White. He and Mr. Pink had re-emerged, with Pink holding a satchel that Vermeer assumed was the diamonds.

Blonde looked up from his massacre, as though a group of vegetarians had caught him buying three T-bones. He truly didn't feel anything was wrong, except anger at being distracted.

Mr. Pink began running for the door, "Come on, let's get outta here!" He was followed by Mr. White. Mr. Orange was just standing there, staring in horror at Mr. Blonde.

Before they got to the door, however, a hail of bullets smashed the glass in the doors. Mr. Blonde automatically began firing back. Mr. White and Mr. Pink leapt out of the way just in time, screaming, "The cops!"

"""" "" "" "" " ""

Mr. Brown hadn't seen the cops. He'd seen something even more horrible.

Gallo had done his part and had parked on the other side of the street, ready to zoom over and pick them up.

But as he was parking the car, he noticed a car that seemed to stand out from the rest. It was a dark red Volvo 740 parked in front of the jewlry store.

Only the natural instincts of a good driver prevented Gallo from driving into another car in shock. He stared horrified at Alice's car. She was here? Now? Of all fucking times! Gallo's panic, always hidden and suppressed, came out with a full and hard-earned vengeance.

Gallo felt unable to breathe, slamming his hands down on the car's dashboard, the steering wheel, anything in his reach. He gave a shrill scream in his utter horror, and knew that he was doomed. Alice would never quietly obey common criminals. Her fucking uncle was a cop! She would want to report this to the police, and she would recognize them when she went with them on the plane.

Tears rolled down Gallo's cheeks as he blubbered away in the privacy of the car. What was he going to do? What was going to happen?

He began to compose himself: okay, it was bad, but maybe he could undo it. He could ask Joe to be separated from the other guys, so she'd never see them. She'd want to report it to the police so that meant they would have to leave later than planned.

That was when the alarm went off. Gallo was shocked out of his worry. What the fuck was going on? That wasn't supposed to happen!

Just as the alarm went off, he noticed several police cars, cleverly hidden a couple of blocks from the store.

Gallo knew then that they were going to ambush them. And Alice was in the middle of that! He had to get her out of there!

His mind made up, he drove out of the parking lot and spurred for the jewelry store.

That was when other cops, having hidden in unmarked cars, began shooting at the store.


	15. Chapter 15

**Note from Author:** as with another chapter, I once again recommend music for this scene. Blind Guardian's "Punishment Divine" (try Youtube). It suits this scene quite well if you ask me.

**Chapter 15**

Gallo saw the cops and in his desperation, turned his car to drive right at them. He knew that if these cops interfered, he'd never reach Alice. He had to stop them from shooting so that they could get away.

The cops saw him just in time and dove away from his manic charge. Gallo began to gibber in the excitement of it all. He pulled out his gun as he skidded the car to a halt.

At once, cops began firing on him as more cops began to charge forward towards the store.

Gallo began firing his gun, not even aiming at the cops, but trying to cause a distraction. He could still not bear to shoot another person.

Looking at the store, he saw several cops fall from bullet wounds, out leaped a man in a tuxedo. He carried a satchel and instead of going towards Gallo, he turned away and bolted off down the street, pursued by several cops. Turning back to shoot a few of them, Mr. Pink fired off a round of ammo before bolting off.

Gallo began to panic again as he saw more cops getting shot. He stared at the blood in shock.

Just then, a scream from behind caused Gallo to turn around. It was another cop, running right for him.

Out of panic, Gallo screamed as he cannoned for the cop's legs. The guy, who was pretty young, fell over heavily.

Gallo leapt on top of him, holding him down, "Lie still and I won't shoot you!"

"Fuck you!" The cop struggled hard, and Gallo applied more weight, all the while staring at the car, which hadn't been hit with many bullets. The cops were mostly ignoring it in favour of the guys in the store. Gallo could see more cars coming down the road.

In his fury, Gallo punched the cop in the side, "I don't want to fucking kill you alright? I don't want to kill you!"

"Oh don't worry, Brown, I'd be happy to take it from here."

Gallo looked up in horror.

Mr. Blonde was crouched down, reloading his guns. He smiled at the two men in front of him, "Having a good time there Mr. Brown?"

Gallo was too intimidated to respond. He almost let go of the cop.

Mr. Blonde grabbed the handcuffs from the cop's belt, and handcuffed the man, "I'll take him with me. We need to figure this whole thing out."

He began dragging the guy behind him, firing over the car. Judging by the screams, he was a deadly shot.

Gallo, with more courage and effort than he'd ever mustered in his existence, called out, "Blonde! Was there a black girl in there?"

Blonde looked back, "Yeah. She set off the fucking alarm so I blew her apart." Ignoring Gallo, he dived, still dragging the handcuffed cop, among the cars of the parking lot.

Gallo stared, unable to breathe. He couldn't believe what he had heard. Alice was dead. Dead. Blown apart by a fucking madman who would never regret his actions. Gallo felt like turning the gun on himself.

He crawled into the car, back into the driver's seat. He could barely see for the tears blinding him. Alice was dead. What could amount to that? Nothing mattered anymore. Gallo could see that Mr. White and Mr. Orange were punching a whole in the attack of the cops. They were going to make a break for Gallo in the car.

Then Gallo noticed one of the plainclothes guys staring at him, his guard down.

It was Holdaway.

Gallo groaned in horror. Now it was over.

Holdaway's face looked astonished, then with a look of fury, he pointed his gun at Gallo.

Gallo knew that it was over then. He was trapped, he couldn't move away. Maybe he didn't want to.

Gallo saw the window in from of him smash before he heard it smash. As the sound came through, something struck him right in the forehead, and Gallo knew he was a dead man.

Someone grabbed his shoulder, and he saw that it was Mr. White. He stared in horror at Gallo's head, and Gallo knew he must be dead. But although the pain was enough to make him crazy, he was still alive.

Mr. Orange stared at him from the back, "How the fuck is he still alive?"

Gallo groaned and automatically began driving away. He heard bullets and shouting, but all he could think of was the fact that Alice was dead, and that he'd been shot through his skull. Was he being toyed with? Was he being tormented? A bullet through the fucking head killed you! Any asshole knew that!

His eyesight began to fade from the tears and the blood. He sobbed as he drove. He felt a hand on his shoulder, but he didn't look to see who it was.

Gallo suddenly slammed the car into another automobile parked right on the side of the road.

Gallo cursed automatically. How had he not seen that?

He heard sirens, and he wished he was dead. He wanted to scream and cry and wail and plead for forgiveness. He had fooled himself all this time into thinking he could get the better of the deal. He thought he could have figured this out and escaped the madness. He had fooled himself, had made himself blind.

"Blind...I'm blind... Gallo muttered as he stared at his bloody hands, his words becoming slurred as though drunk.

A voice broke through, "You're not blind you've got blood in your eyes." It was Mr. Orange, not understanding what Gallo meant.

Gallo wanted to swear at Orange. Fuck him, fuck White, fuck Eddie, fuck Holdaway, fuck Joe, fuck everyone. Fuck them all. He'd had enough. He wanted it to be over.

The last thing he heard was the hail of bullets, and his last thought was wondering whether he'd see Alice again or not.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Vermeer stared as Mr. Brown ran through the cops with his car. Maybe the kid did have some courage after all.

Inside, the customers wailed and dove away, trying to hide from the battlefield that this was turning out to be. Mr. Orange dove away from the doors as bullets flew through. Vermeer would have shot Orange for being such a pussy.

Vermeer growled as he shot out a few rounds at the nearest cops. He didn't know if he hit them, but he saw that this was a bad situation. He hadn't faced anything this bad since Saipan. And he'd been a young guy then, with a company of competent troops.

He looked at Mr. Blonde, pouring bullet after bullet at the cops, keeping them away. He was the one reason that they weren't dead yet. Then again, he was also the reason that this situation had occurred.

Mr. White was firing as well, crouched behind on of the display stands. Mr. Brown had parked the car not far from the store, and was firing wildly.

Mr. Pink suddenly yelled, "Fuck this shit!" and bolted out. Vermeer shook his head: that guy was gutsy as hell. He heard bullets and screams of pain and he assumed that Pink was a dead man.

He turned back to Blonde, "We're chicken feed if we stay here!"

Blonde didn't notice him, and kept shooting. Mr. Orange was shooting, but Vermeer had not trust in the man's aim.

This was crap, he thought. He was trying to think sensibly, and this was just a bloodbath.

He felt a pain sear his shoulder, and he knew he was shot.

"Fuck!" he roared as he grabbed his shoulder. Thank God it was his left shoulder, he thought. He was right-handed.

Mr. Blonde suddenly burst through the door, his arms with life of their own as they seemed to point the guns at every single cop there.

Mr. White saw this as an opportunity, and grabbed Mr. Orange, heading for the door.

Vermeer was the last one in the store. He knew it was now or never.

Dropping his empty gun, he pulled the other ones from his belt and lumbered out as fast as age allowed him.

As he charged out, he saw Blonde diving behind Mr. Brown's position and firing. He didn't see Mr. Brown and assumed he was dead. Mr. Orange and Mr. White were making their stand on the other side of the parking lot, trying to work their way towards the car.

Vermeer shot at the cops bunched around their cars, trying to make sense of this. He felt another searing pain in his leg, and he almost dropped to the ground. This was ridiculous! He had to get out of here!

He began limping away as fast as he could, shooting all the while.

The cops began moving after him, but Mr. White accidentally helped out Vermeer by renewing his shooting. The cops turned back to him and Orange. Vermeer crawled around the corner of the store.

Sitting upright, he made sure his guns were fully loaded. He sighed in pain: this was hurting like hell. He knew that he was done for. All that remained was to make a last stand and die with his boots on. This was how it ended for Klaus Vermeer, Mr. Blue, hero of the Second World War, loyal friend, and loving husband.

"Toby," Vermeer moaned as he looked at the cops working their way to where he was. He stopped himself saying her name again. He wouldn't dishonour her memory by invoking her name on a crime job.

All the same, he wished Toby were here. He missed her more than ever knowing that he was going to die.

That was when Vermeer saw his chance. An alleyway between two chain-link fences. If he could make it out through there, he had a chance.

He lurched forward in a zest for life. He heard screams, followed shortly by warning shots.

He tried to dodge, but he was too slow, another bullet hit his already wounded leg. Roaring in pain, he headed through the narrow passageway.

The cops were chasing after him, he could tell. Their footsteps pounded on the pavement, their voices getting louder and louder.

Turning around, he fired emptied his ammunition at the group of police officers. He was sure that at least two of them were down, but the others ducked for cover and were saved.

Using this time as best he could, Vermeer limped off, groaning at the pain in his leg and shoulder. He reached the end of the alley way and knew he had to keep going.

Suddenly, two guys in regular clothes stepped up in front of him, guns pointed right at his face, "It's over, motherfucker!"

Vermeer froze out of habit, cursing to himself.

The cops who were chasing him caught up to Vermeer and the other two. They pointed their guns at the two newcomers, "Who are you?"

One of the guys flipped out his badge while the other kept a pistol aimed right for Vermeer's eyes, "Sgt. Dan Fogler. We'll take this senior to the hospital to get that leg treated up."

One of the uniformed police spoke out angrilly, "Who the fuck do you think you are? We got this guy."

Sgt. Fogler growled, "We got special orders from the Captain. You want discuss it there or now?"

The other cops relented, and they headed back to the jewelry store. It wasn't hard: Vermeer had left a blood trail for them to follow.

Vermeer was getting weak from the pain. He looked wearily at the man, "Just fucking kill me."

Fogler laughed, "I doubt Joe would be happy about that."

Even in his pain, Vermeer jumped in surprise.

The second guy put his gun down, "Come on. We're taking you to a doctor that Joe knows."

"" "" " " "" """ ""

Later that day, Vermeer sat on a small chair, in new clothes, the bullets taken out of his shoulder and leg, his leg in a cast. Joe was sitting next to him.

"How do you feel?"

Vermeer grimaced, "I feel pretty fucking bad. What the hell happened over there? I can't believe it went so bad."

Joe sighed, "Eddie's off to go meet whoever's still alive at the warehouse. He got a call from Blonde."

Vermeer grunted, "We were set up, Joe."

Joe nodded, "That we were. You know who did it?"

Vermeer shrugged, "I'd say either Mr. Orange or Mr. Brown. Neither of them hit anybody far as I'm concerned. They barely tried at all."

Joe looked at his old friend, "I knew Mr. Brown well. He's no crook, but he's also a loyal bastard. He owed me and he fulfilled that payment as he could."

Vermeer looked at him, "So it was Orange?"

Joe's face hardened, "The only one I wasn't a hundred percent on."

Vermeer chuckled, "This ain't the first time it happened to you, Joe. You've been betrayed by newbies before. Back in '83 when that one kid turned out to be helping the FBI instead of us."

Joe paused, staring at Vermeer, "There were a couple of other times too." He spoke in an almost hesitant voice. Bad memories perhaps?

Vermeer sighed, "You know what they say. You can't teach an old dog new tricks."

Joe gave a fleeting smile, "Yeah." He looked almost relieved.

Twenty minutes later, Joe organized a taxi for Vermeer, "Your stuff's here, and you'll be outta here for Mexico. You'll meet a man on the plane who'll give you fifty thousand dollars to live easy. I don't care what you do after that."

Vermeer paused, "What do you mean?"

Joe sounded almost gruff, "It means what it means. I don't want to see you around here again. It's not safe for an old dog like you. Get away from this place and head out for the tropical islands. Live easy like they promised us after Saipan."

Vermeer smiled, but then paused. Something didn't feel right.

He looked at Joe, "Did you ever find out who Toby was?"

Joe slowly nodded, "Yeah I remember. I can't believe I fucking forgot about that girl. She was a cute little piece of work."

Vermeer imagined her again and felt miserable. However he pressed on, "What happened to her?"

Joe frowned, "What do you mean?"

Vermeer knew then that he was hiding something, "You and I have gone to war together, Joe Cabot. You and I have come back from places that ate up better men for breakfast. We stuck together when we came back. We took wives, we started living in the real world. We both turned away and entered our real line of work. We stayed loyal to each other all this time, and in all these years, you never gave me anything for free. You've rewarded me well, but never given a gift."

He pointed out to where the taxi was set to come, "This is a gift! I didn't earn this."

Joe shrugged, "Sure you did..."

Vermeer broke in, "No I didn't! I earned a trip to Hawaii with the others. This is something else entirely! You're putting me in a witness protection escape or whatever the fuck you'd call it. I get away for good. Why?"

Joe didn't say anything. Vermeer waited, then spoke, "What happened to Toby?"

Joe looked angry, "Is it all about that Chinese broad? What makes you think I-"

"Damnit Joe, you know what happened to her! I begged you to look after her until I got out! You got me out earlier than ten years, true, but you didn't save her. That was the one thing I've ever asked you and you didn't do it!"

Joe finally crumbled, "It was a tough time. You were in prison, and the other guys got a little eager about the void. They thought I was gonna get rid of you. Then there was that kid from outta town, Drexl Spivey remember?"

Vermeer nodded, "So?" He felt scared. He had a horrid feeling how this was going to work out.

"Well he turned to prostitution pretty fast. He had a bunch of blacks working for him- he always acted like a fucking idiot- and he heard about your situation. I tried to buy him off, but he was getting greedy, and I was up to my neck with the cops and strong-arms and shylocks takin' over, and I knew that Toby was done for without you.'

'So I asked her to help out with paying the ransom for her life. She was scared, because she thought you'd disapprove, but she was even more scared of us, and the fact that she and you would die if it didn't happen. So she sold all the jewelry in the house to get it, even that little armband she always wore. She didn't give that one up until after a while.

Vermeer nodded sadly, "It wasn't enough?"

Joe nodded, "Of course it was. It got her a ticket back to China."

Vermeer's mouth dropped open, "What?"

Joe shrugged, "I didn't want to give in to that slimy prick, so I found out where she came from in China, gave her enough money to live easy on for three months, and she got herself a plane ticket back home."

Vermeer paused, "When was this?" he said in a whisper.

To give the man his due, Joe looked pretty sympathetic, "A week after she visited you in prison. She didn't have the heart to tell you. She didn't want to hurt you anymore, she said to me. It broke her heart to see you hurt yourself in the marriage."

Vermeer sighed shakily, "She got out okay?"

Joe nodded, "I kept in touch with her for a month. She found another husband, because you annulled the marriage to her, remember? You thought she was dead anyway, but she thought if you heard she'd left you, it would be worse. So she begged me never to tell you. And this,' he finished gruffly, 'is how I pay you back for all that heartache."

Vermeer was moved almost to tears. Joe, his war buddy, had done all this for the woman that he had loved? He couldn't speak. True, he had been hurt, but what did it matter if Toby was happy? She was able to go back home and conquer her demons, while Vermeer could live his life however it came. Just an old dog standing by the reservoir of life.

The taxi came, and Vermeer shook hands with Joe for the last time, but not before saying one last thing to him, "Listen Joe. Tell the others that Mr. Blue died."

Joe gave a baleful smile, "I'll do that free of charge. I gotta go find that little prick Mr. Orange and give him the treatment that all traitors earn from me."

Vermeer felt sad at leaving this man, but he pressed on, "If you get the chance, tell Eddie that I wish him the best."

Joe nodded, "Good luck, Klaus."

That was that. An hour later, Vermeer boarded a plane that would take him to Mexico. From there, Vermeer planned, he would use the money to get himself a small place in Costa Rica. Hell, Uncle Sam's cash must be worth more down south anyway.

The man was there, and he handed Vermeer a bulging envelope which Vermeer put in the pocket of his jacket. It was going to be a smooth flight, Vermeer reckoned.

A middle-aged black woman dressed in a flight attendant's suit smiled down at him, "How are you sir? Do want coffee?"

Vermeer smiled, "Yes that'd be nice." He wondered if Mr. Pink considered this a tipworthy job.

He thanked her- the nametag read J. Brown- and handed her a special tip.

The woman took the money, "What's this for?"

Vermeer shrugged, "A gift."

The woman pocketed it, "Well, thanks a lot."

Just as she turned away, Vermeer knew that Mr. Brown wouldn't have resisted asking, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Pam Grier?"

But instead, Klaus Vermeer turned to looked at the clear blue sky, void of any clouds, and knew that he could finally relax.

**_End_**

_Stanley Marlowe would like to acknowledge Quentin Tarantino's work as inspiration, and is grateful to all readers and reviewers._


End file.
